Recovering
by AngelofDarkness1605
Summary: Spotting a distressed and no longer intimidating Mr. Gold in the hospital, amnesiac Belle returns the shards of his cup to him in an attempt to console him.
1. Part 1

_There was a time that this story was wishful thinking for the second half of season 2… now it's very much AU. I hope you'll enjoy reading it anyway._

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**Recovering**

Part 1

It takes a long time before she is somewhat calm again. Minutes, hours perhaps, or any other measure of time. Such measures have no meaning to her. All she has ever known is endlessness between four walls. The nothingness did end, eventually, but the events which have taken place since then are vague and at least as terrible.

There were screams and screeching noises, too bright lights and a crash, combined with pain and confusion. In the middle of the chaos and fear was a man who called her a name which is meaningless to her, who said so many things which she still doesn't understand. The intensity in his eyes scared her almost as much as the way he just wouldn't let go of her.

He wouldn't leave her alone when they were outside, but he appeared here as well. It seems strange for him to follow her to a place of which she doesn't know herself what it is exactly. She thinks she might be in the hospital, but how can the comfortable bed in the large room possible be the same place as the small cell underground where she has been for as long as she can remember?

Yet, he was here. He was yelling outside her room, his voice standing out among the noise of more people than she had ever heard before. The man had been there during the night as well, _kissing_ her. She has never been kissed, but she doesn't think that the panic caused by sudden lips pushing insistingly against her own is what kissing is supposed to be like.

He had disappeared at her screams, but he returned this afternoon to fuss over a damaged cup which looked to her like more trouble than it was worth. There was little room to consider that though when he forced her to hold the item of fragile porcelain, only leaving her alone again after yet more panic caused her to smash the cup against the very walls of the building which had held her captive for so long.

He has been gone for quite some time now and she finally isn't terrified any longer, but she still doesn't have a clue why he was so intend for her to hold that particular, _stupid_ cup in the first place.

She wishes that she knew how she got hurt and why she is in such a large room all on her own. She wants to know why that man won't leave her alone.

She doubts whether she'll get any answers. There is no one who has actually talked to her, no one but _him_, and he doesn't make any sense. There are few things she knows of the world outside the small room which has been her only reality for as long as she can remember, but she is certain that there is no such thing as the magic which he keeps talking of.

He might be mad, but she has always been told that _she_ is and she has never held such bizarre notions as the man who appears wherever she goes. She has always felt numb, empty, and for as far as she can tell the man is anything but. If anything, it looks like he thinks and feels too much.

Her thoughts are focused on the mysterious man so much that the sudden noise from outside initially doesn't register. But when it repeats itself, again and again with somewhat regular intervals, she becomes gradually aware of it.

Tensing at the disturbed silence, she pulls the blanket tighter around for comfort of a kind it can't provide. She is all alone, in a world which is completely unfamiliar to her, and she has never learned to fend for herself. She hasn't been taught to react properly to danger, or to decide whether situations are threatening or not to begin with.

All she knows is that she is defenseless and that there is someone - or something - in the hallway outside her room. Straining her ears, she dismisses the possibility of the sounds being caused by a nurse or another staff member. She has watched them all day, for a lack of anything better to do, and knows that they don't linger there.

Curiosity gets the better of her, probably hugely encouraged by her desire to _do_ something now that she is out of the locked room where she has been forced to spend so much time. She has no idea whether she'll have to get back there, so now that she is still somewhat free she might as well take advantage of the previously unknown luxury of finding out what is beyond the doorstep.

She gets up as quietly as she can, surprised by the way her legs hold her weight easily. She expected herself to be weak after being confined to a single, small room for as long as she had, but she finds herself much stronger than she anticipated. It's almost as if she has actually walked - _lived_ - instead of being locked up.

Her feet are bare and although the floor is cold, she is glad for the lack of shoes. She can be more quiet this way, and she isn't used to wear anything on her feet anyway.

She crosses the room with surprisingly confident steps in mere seconds, but there is no time to consider how that ease of movement might be possible. The sound which roused her grows stronger when she gets closer to its source and she's anxious to find out what is causing it, who or what is just outside her view.

She doesn't see anything which she hasn't seen earlier that day when she reaches the glass doors which separates her new room from the hallway; whatever she has heard must be further along. Intuitively holding her breath, she pokes her head around the door, looking in both directions.

She abruptly withdraws her head only a second later, quickly retreating to the relative safety of the room. It shouldn't surprise her, not after what has happened so far, but she is taken aback by finding _him_ sitting at the end of the hallway.

She leans back against the wall, trying to calm her by now raging breath, expecting him to rush towards her and do something else to upset her. She has been quiet so far and she doesn't think he has spotted her, but that man can do _things_ with fire and light, and she doesn't trust him in the slightest.

The sound continues, louder than ever before. Now that she is closer to it and is reasonably sure that it's caused by a person, it's a lot easier to recognize. Someone is _crying_ and as strange as it seems, the man who never stops being near her – never stops scaring her – is the one who is doing so.

It's the only explanation that he is the one who is making these sounds, but it doesn't make any sense to her. Still, she has to know for certain, if only so she'll never have to doubt her observations when she is back in the nothingness of her room in the basement.

She dares another soundless and very brief peek, just to make sure. She finds him exactly where he was before. By now knowing what she's looking for, his slumped, trembling shoulders are difficult to miss, just like the way his face is covered by his hands, even with the current distance which safely separates them.

He hardly looks like the demanding, intimidating man he was so far. That's probably the only reason that she doesn't flee the very room to find a place where he can't come near her again.

She lingers on the threshold instead, only her head poking into the hallway as she keeps her gaze on the man. She is conflicted, for the first time struggling to make up her mind regarding him. She was afraid of him before, but now that he is sitting there like that, his shuddering sobs still not ceasing, he doesn't look that scary at all.

If anything, he looks utterly lost. If there's something she's familiar with, it's the feeling of being all alone in the world, of having nothing to live for. In a way, he looks now like she has so often felt herself.

She remembers his cup, how sad he was when she smashed it against the wall, almost like his heart broke along with that damaged and seemingly useless piece of china. It seems a bit silly to react like this because of a broken cup, but she has been locked up all this time so what does she know?

She eyes the shards on the floor, lying exactly where they have been since the moment that the impact of her blow broke them away from one another. As guilt overwhelms her, so does an idea.

Much as the notion of actually approaching him would have terrified her until a moment ago, it doesn't seem all that bad now to at least give the remains of the cup back to him. That way, he won't have to come to her room again to get them himself - somehow, she _knows_ he wants them back - and she might have the chance to apologize. He should have left when she asked him to, but destroying his cup was not the solution to make him leave - not the right one, at least.

She quietly picks up the shards, making sure to collect all of them. When she has, she returns to the threshold and peeks to the other side of the hallway, reassured to find two nurses at the station. If anything goes wrong, she'll call out for them.

Taking a deep breath, she leaves the relative safety of the room and heads for the man on the uncomfortable looking hospital chair, his head still buried in his hands. She tries to be strong and calm... to be brave. It is important for a reason she can't explain.

He doesn't look up as she approaches him, clearly not hearing her. She definitely hears him though, the sound of his sadness upsetting her in a way that takes her aback. It's not just that he is a stranger whose emotions shouldn't upset her this much; he's a stranger who has scared her with everything he has said and done. In the quietness of the dark and mostly deserted hospital, it's however almost as if his sadness is her own.

Sitting there like that, all but curled up into himself, he is much smaller than she remembers. He seemed so tall and strong when they were on the road in the forest, so imposing when he approached her in the very bed she just left. But now... now he looks like a man who is defeated by his own despair.

"I wanted to give you this."

Keeping the distance between them as large as practically possible, she shows him the pieces of broken china in her hands. Whether he's tall or not, in that moment she feels tiny indeed.

His head snaps up and she extends her arms more fully to bring the shards to his attention, hoping that she hasn't just made a horrible mistake. He doesn't even glance at the remains of his cup though, only stares at her in that deeply unnerving way of his.

His eyes are the same whirlpools of emotion as before, their intensity almost tangible. But she is somewhat prepared for that now and she stands her ground, looking straight back at him.

Long seconds pass in which they simply stare at one another. He makes no attempt to approach her, maintaining the distance between them, which allows her to relax slightly.

It's like she truly sees him for the first time only now. It's doubtlessly helped by the tears which are still dripping down his cheeks, but it's so much more than that. In the first somewhat calm moment they share, he hardly seems like the madman she took him for earlier.

Indeed, there is something desperate about him, but it doesn't appear to be as threatening as before at all. Similarly, the haunted look on his face that she was only partly aware of before is so much more obvious to her now. Whatever drove this man to act the way he did in their earlier meetings, she can see now that there was no malevolent intend behind it.

Encouraged, she steps slightly closer to him, aiming to hand him the shards. She dare not presume what he might want to do with them, but it was earlier obvious that the cup means very much to him.

"I'm sorry," she says timidly, lowering her gaze to the shards in her palms with the hope that he will follow her.

"There's no need to apologize. None whatsoever. I should be the one to..."

His voice is hoarse, lacking all his earlier certainty. For the first time she genuinely wonders why he is reacting like this. No matter how much the cup meant to him, it seems a bit much for him to break down like this due to the broken china.

"You already did," she says, only now fully recalling his muttered apology and the look of complete horror on his face when he regarded the remains of the cup. "I can't fix it, but maybe you can..."

She isn't sure how to continue that sentence, whether the magic he keeps talking about would provide a solution. That notion would be a ridiculous one. It _is_, because there's no such things as magic. And yet, he did something to her shoulder, something to make the pain go away, in a way that shouldn't be possible.

No longer afraid to do so, she closes the last distance between them, holding her hands up in front of him to give the shards to him. Instead of taking them, he turns away from her, muttering something unintelligible, the lump in his throat almost audible.

"I can throw them away if you don't want them..."

She attempts to find out what she should say and do to make this better, to figure out what he _wants_, but he only cringes at her words.

Yet more confused, she can only stand there, her eyes fixed on his back. He is scaring her again, but in a way which couldn't differ more from what he did before.

For whatever reason, he is hurt and she can't stand the sight of it. She wants him to feel better, wants to _help_ him feel better, but she doesn't have a clue how she might achieve that.

His shoulders are shaking, the same sounds as before escaping him. He is crying right in front of her and that too seems impossible, for he seemed so certain and strong before. This way, he is just as small as she has always felt.

"You... you should go," he says, not turning around to face her and his voice barely audible. "Go back to your room. I promise you that I won't bother you again. I won't come back for you, unless you ask me to. You... you won't have to see again. You _won't_ see me again. You have my word. When... _if_ you would like me to visit I'd be more than happy to meet you again, but I guarantee that it won't happen if you don't want me to s..."

His voice breaks as he leans as far away from her as he can without actually getting up. She spots his cane, lying forgotten on the floor beneath his chair, just out of his reach. But it's more than the unavailability of something to lean on that is holding him back; it's like his body is simply failing him.

"Please, just _go._"

Before, these words were the last she expected from him. Before, she would for once have done nothing rather than do exactly as he says. Before, she was oblivious to the sadness which is consuming him, the despair which haunts him.

He places a gloved hand against the wall to steady himself, his fist clenched yet trembling as he is struggling to compose himself and loses the battle. He sniffles noisily, making a gesture with his still free hand to wipe the tears away from his face.

At the sight of it, she knows for once exactly what to do.


	2. Part 2

Part 2

The man in front of her has his back towards her and lowers his head, almost as if to make himself invisible to her. It's difficult to believe that this hurt, _broken_ human being is the same one who terrified her several times in the past few days. This way, he looks like he isn't capable of hurting anybody even if he wanted to.

But there are at least a few memories which don't betray her and she knows only too well how afraid she has been of him. Still, now that she has seen him like this and briefly talked to him, she's beginning to understand that he's not what he seemed at first. If anything, it seems like he is afraid of _her _and her reactions to him.

Something deep inside of her aches at seeing him like this. She doesn't really understand that sentiment, but she can't deny that the longer she remains standing there, the less she can endure his sorrow.

Taking a proper look at him for the first time, Belle sees that his eyes are less dark than she thought. They had seemed black at first, almost just as dark as his pupils, but it turns out that his irises are a pleasant shade of brown, almost gold in the harsh light of the hospital hallway.

She is still holding the remains of the cup which she broke earlier that day. She deposits the shards carefully on a small table at her side before turning herself towards him. His back is still facing her, which is why she makes sure to rest her hand on his shoulder as carefully as she possibly can.

He tenses immediately, and so does she, not really knowing what she is doing, let alone how he might react.

"What... what are you doing?"

She hushes him, if only because she doesn't know the answer to his question. At the same time, she moves her hand slightly downwards, caressing him in which she hopes is a soothing way. He relaxes, but only slightly.

It occurs to her that it isn't just the unexpectedness of her gesture which is catching him off guard; it's as if he truly doesn't expect her to touch him, especially not as carefully as this. It strengthens her belief that she is doing the right thing, despite not really understanding either her tendency to help him or the mysterious man himself.

"Try to relax," she mutters, very much aware of the tension in his shoulders, spreading through most of his body from there by the looks of it.

He calms a little more at her words, leaning back slightly to be closer to her. She doesn't mind the increased nearness, his presence not bothering her at all now. Quite the opposite. There's something familiar about having him so close to her, something almost... soothing.

She places her other hand on his shoulder as well, stroking the unyielding surface. She has never touched anyone like this before - for as far as she can tell, she never touched anyone to begin with. Still, her hands know exactly what to do, finding a way to touch him on their own accord.

Some of the tension leaves him, but the sniffling noises only intensify. Presuming that he doesn't want her to touch him, or at least not like this, she abruptly withdraws.

"Am I doing it wrong?"

She hates herself for having to ask, for being so ignorant, but she wants to make this man feel better and it seems that she can't do so without his help.

His head is not entirely turned away from her as he shakes it in response, tears dripping down his cheeks as he does so. It's all the confirmation she needs. She pulls him towards her again, until his head is leaning on her shoulder and her hand is on his arms. A tangible shudder goes throughout him and after a long second he goes limp against her.

She gasps in shock when he slouches against her; not because of his suddenly overwhelming closeness, but because it seems as if all strength has deserted him.

Not wanting him to slide down to the floor, she wraps her arms around him and holds on to him, supporting his weight as well as she can.

He only shakes harder when she embraces him, his arms remaining at his side, just as unused as the rest of him. He is too quiet for a few seconds, as if he has ceased to breath as well, but then something inside of him appears to break.

The earlier sniffling becomes outright crying and although she knows nothing but her own, soundless tears in the night, she can tell that this man's despair and sadness equals her own.

She has no idea what is going on, why he hurts so very much. His anxiety scares her in its intensity, but not like the way he himself did before. He isn't threatening now, couldn't differ more from the intimidating man he appeared to be just a few hours ago.

Although the reason is unknown to her, he turns to her for comfort and she is not going to let him down. It's not just that this is for her the first time to do something, to be useful and _needed_, but much more because she want to help this stranger. He might be frightening, earlier at least, but he fascinates her, and never more so than he does now, breaking down in her arms.

His face pressed awkwardly against her shoulder, she intuitively guides his head to the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, finding the fit to be perfect. His chest partly moves against her as a result and she gasps at the sensation of being this close to someone else.

For as long as she can remember, the only touches she has known are unpleasant, inflicted upon her, when the people who held her in the small room forcefully stopped her whenever she tried to get away. There were other people when she woke up on the road in the forest, but they too touched her only to bring her to a place where she didn't want to go, and keep her there.

This man was one of them, but as she considers him once more, she realizes that he had no part in bringing her here. He healed her, somehow, and wouldn't leave her alone until the others put her in a moving vehicle, but he didn't make her do things she didn't want to do.

Indeed, now that she thinks of it, he has thoroughly scared her several times in the past few days, but not a single time he did anything to hurt her or forced her to go to places where she didn't want to go. More than that, he _helped_ her, making an end to the pain that hurt her arm so very much.

That knowledge makes it only more natural for her to hold the man as he cries, attempting to decrease the sadness that is consuming him. She isn't the woman who he thinks she is, nor the woman who he wants her to be, but that won't prevent her from trying to make him feel a little better.

His tears are sliding hotly down her skin, beneath the gown that she was given. The sensation isn't an unfamiliar one, but to feel another human being's tears is not something she ever expected. She wished that she had, if only because it might have somewhat prepared her for this situation, for finding herself with someone who might be just as lonely and lost as she is herself.

She pats him awkwardly on the back, hoping that the gesture can provide some of the comfort he so obviously needs. As a result, he only cries harder. Belle doesn't know much, but she is certain that this is not supposed to happen. She can't be _that_ bad at supporting someone else, even with her lack of experience, or can she?

Time passes, probably, but none of his earlier strength returns to him and even the iron will with which he approached her again and again seems to have vanished. Even just lying against her shoulder appears to be too much of an effort. He slides lower even as he clings to her, boneless, and he ends up with his face in her lap, all but burying himself in the fabric of the unpleasant gown.

Making sure that he remains lying there and isn't about to fall on the floor, she brings her hands to his head and continues to stroke his unexpectedly soft hair.

She is certain that she has never touched anyone like this either, but these motions feel familiar to her as well, as if she knows exactly how to comfort this very man. If only she wouldn't know for a fact that she has spend all her years in a small cell and that she has never seen him until a few days ago, she'd be tempted to think that he actually means something to her... that they truly know each other.

She only becomes aware that she is crying herself when salty liquid drops from her face to the back of his head, slightly wetting his long hair.

The obvious explanation is that her very first confrontation with such utter sadness of someone else has triggered a similar reaction from her. But as she experimentally strokes his scalp, in the way she imagines a mother soothing her child, it almost feels like their sorrow is connected, like they share the same grief.

It's ridiculous, of course, for she doesn't know him. She hasn't even seen him until a few days ago, when she woke up on the road in the forest.

She hastily wipes her tears away, not wanting the man to see them. It's not that she is ashamed of this display of unexplained grief, but she senses that it will only add to his own sadness, something she whole-heartedly wants to avoid.

He is all but curled up against her now, his head resting on her thigh and his arms locked securely around her waist, one of his leg pulled upwards towards his chest. He looks decisively uncomfortable in a way that goes beyond his emotional breakdown, especially with the awkward angle of his other leg, which looks as if he can't quite move it like he wants to. She supposes this is the reason that he uses a cane.

She shifts slightly, hoping to accommodate their embrace better, and guides his right leg onto the row of adjoined plastic chairs which he is basically using as a bed now, with her lap as his pillow.

He becomes somewhat quiet and less uncontrolled after only a long while, in which she doesn't cease to touch him gently. He never loosens his grip on her though, as if he is afraid - convinced, even - that she'll be gone the second he lets go off her waist just a little.

Minutes after he has gone completely silent at last, he presses his face more tightly against her for a moment, then withdraws. Despite his unusual pose, he manages to sit up without much difficulty, immediately distancing himself from her.

When he meets her gaze again, there is no trace of the tears which slid down the skin of both of them just a while ago, but the redness and puffiness of his eyes is undeniable. She has seen such a display far too often, in the small mirror in the cold room where she had to take a shower every once in a while.

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have..."

He shakes his head, as if dismissing whatever words he intended to say even as he speaks them.

"It's alright," she tries, wanting to convince him that it's no trouble for her at all to have held him like this, to have seen the man who appears to hide behind an otherwise completely composed facade.

"It's not. Really, it's not. I..."

There's another shake of his head, more frustrated this time, pained almost, as he searches for the words which he needs to tell her what he wants to.

He doesn't continue though, just stares at her as if he can't believe that she's here, with him... as if he's surprised that she's alive.

It's completely unnerving, but in a way that couldn't differ more from the way he upset her before.

"Sir?"

She has no idea how else to break the ever increasing silence between them, just like she isn't certain how else to address him. She has vague memories of the others calling him 'Gold', but it feels wrong to call him that, the name not suiting him the way it should.

He flinches as she addresses him as such. The ache at both being unable to understand why this upsets him so much and the fact that he is for some reason hurt because of something she subconsciously said, borders on being physically painful.

"What's your name?

Something which might be hope flickers in his gaze at her question. She isn't certain whether it's a good idea to be talking like this to the man who scared her, to directly ask him questions, but he is currently still meeker than anyone she has known in the short time of being outside the horrible room in the basement.

"People call me Mr. Gold," he replies, keeping his gaze solely focused on her. She doesn't find it as unsettling as before at all. "But you can call me Rumple, if you'd like."

He doesn't offer her any more information, although there clearly is so much more, his name alone reminding her of untold mysteries and secrets. She recalls the fire which appeared in his hand, the magic he kept talking about. She has far from forgotten at all about the stealthy, unwanted kiss and the way he ranted about the cup and his castle.

Obviously, there is much more to him than he is willing to share with her now, but this time she is actually glad because of that. After all the bizarre things he has said and done around her, she is relieved that he is giving relatively normal, understandable answers now.

"Rumple," she repeats, trying the name. It's a sort of name she didn't suppose existed, not once during all the time she has had with nothing but the content of her mind for entertainment. The two syllables suit him though, somehow more so than the name by which others apparently know him.

If his small smile is anything to go by, her reaction pleases him. It's the first time she has seen him smile and she finds herself thinking that she wouldn't have been so afraid of him if he would have looked at her like this before. The mere tug of his lips changes his entire expression, displaying a gentleness she couldn't have imagined until now.


	3. Part 3

Part 3

She isn't surprised that the peacefulness doesn't last long. She has never known any calmness after all and there is no reason to presume that she would get much of it now that she is getting to know this unusual man.

"Can you tell me your name?" the man, who wants her to call him Rumple, asks quietly.

She smiles a little herself at his question. Everyone has been calling her 'Belle' so far, ignoring her when she exclaimed that it isn't her name. He might have been the most insistent, before, but at least he's giving her the chance now to make clear for once and for all that she is not the woman everybody seems to think she is.

"I'm..."

Her eyes widen in horror when she is inwardly scrambling for that single word, the most important one of all. It is on the tip of her tongue, and yet, no matter how hard she tries, she can't fully recall it.

"I... I don't know," she whispers after several long seconds, panic welling up inside of her. "How can I not know my own name? How could I not know that I _don't_ know?"

She casts a pleading look at him, hoping and almost expecting that he can provide her with some sort of answer, that he can bring some sense into the world which she has never understood, but which was never as confusing to her as it is right now.

"You knew once," he says, slowly and very carefully, those intent eyes never leaving her and making her feel as if not everything is hopeless. There is worry in them, and so very much pain. She wonders whether his grief has appeared recently or that it has been there since the day she first saw him, and that she simply hasn't noticed before. "You had a life, outside the hospital. But there was an... accident. Your memories were taken from you when we were at the town line, in the forest."

The words fully register in her mind after only a few seconds. It seems ridiculous. She _does_ remember. She has been in the hospital... for as far as she can tell, she always has been.

But his theory _does_ explain how she could end up on the road in the forest, with no idea how she got there. Indeed, for as long as she remembers she has longed to get out of the cell where she has been kept, to see the world that must be beyond the small windows of the tiny room where she is forced to spend her life. She wouldn't have just forgotten the very first time she left the hospital – not unless there was a very good reason to.

She recalls how easy it was to walk, how her legs had no trouble carrying her weight whatsoever, despite having hardly been used for as long as she can recall. Having had an actual life, _freedom_, would explain that.

And yet, she does remember the room in the basement of the hospital - only too well. She can take exactly four steps from the back to the front, and less than three from one side to the other. Tasteless meals are brought three times a day and she is allowed to take a brief, cold shower in the bathroom at the end of the corridor once a week. And every once in a while, _she_ visits her. Just the thought of the dark haired woman with the cruel eyes makes her shiver.

The man who prefers to be called Rumple, by her at least, notices immediately. He leans slightly towards her, his hands extended, almost as if he wants to hold her. He withdraws almost as soon as he started moving however.

She should be relieved that he keeps his distance. She would have been, earlier. Now she almost wishes that he would get closer to her, because somewhere deep inside of her she senses that she feels better when she is in his arms.

He settles for reaching for her hands, only taking them in his own when he has brushed his pleasantly warm fingers tentatively against hers and she doesn't withdraw. The gesture seems somewhat awkward, but she isn't sure whether he doesn't know how to hold anyone's hands or because he's nervous touching _hers –_ but then again, she has no point of reference for such things herself.

The panic that arose within before recedes somehow as she firmly reminds herself that no matter what's going on, no matter what has happened to her, she is at least safe for the time being. There is someone looking out for her now, even protecting her perhaps.

"It had to do with the crash," she mutters, realization dawning. It's the first time that something actually makes sense. She woke up after all while lying on the road, injured, with a damaged vehicle nearby.

He nods in reply, confirming her conclusion, but the way he moves his head just a bit too enthusiastically tells her that is more to the story. Finding that he is eager for her to accept anything less than the full truth doesn't upset her as much as it would have done before. That makes it easier to collect her thoughts and consider her words in order to reveal as much of the truth regarding her own life as she can.

"But I... I remember the hospital. I remember _being here_, downstairs, for a long time."

"That's because you were," he says, the sadness and regret in his eyes only increasing. "You were freed a few months ago. You created a life for yourself in the town. It seems you lost those memories in the accident."

"But how can I remember one thing and not the other?" she asks, trying to come to terms with the apparent fact that she was free for at least a while, despite not recalling any of it. "There's more going on, isn't there?"

"There is," he confirms after a while, lowering his head and sounding more resigned than she's heard him before, even when she broke his cup. "But I don't think telling you now is a wise course of action. It's not easy. You... your life has not been easy. For the time being, you might be better off not knowing all of it."

"What if I want to?"

She asks it more out of curiosity than anything else. She's confused enough as it is and she doesn't want to make it any worse, not straight away at least. She probably wouldn't know what to make of the things that might be told to her, not without knowing anything about who she actually is, who she was while she wasn't locked up in the hospital.

"You've got friends who could tell you about it. You spent time with miss Lucas. Miss Blanchard and miss Swan would be delighted to talk to you as well. And there is your father, of course."

Especially his last words are spoken with reluctance. Apparently, he doesn't really want her to talk to any of these people, not yet at least, but it's something that she can't consider right now. Similarly, she is very much aware that he doesn't mention himself as someone who she could talk to in order to find out about her life. But that too has to wait, since the person who he mentioned last dominates her thoughts for the time being.

"My father..."

She shakes her head, trying to remember the man who must have raised her. She didn't really know that she _has _a father, but at his mention there is a feeling both of comfort and dread in her stomach. It's as conflicting as just about everything she has experienced since finding herself injured on the road in the forest.

More than ever before, she's aware that she might not be who she thinks she is, that she possibly has had a life which she can't remember. Whether that's really the case or not, at this point there's no denying that all the people she's met in the past few days, and this man in particular, apparently know more about her than she does about herself.

Perhaps the most unexplainable, the most _disturbing_, is that they seemingly all say the same things about her and the life which can't be hers.

"All of you know me as Belle, don't you?" she says quietly, the words as much a question as as statement.

The man opposite her nods, this time without doubt or reluctance.

"I _am_ Belle."

He nods again, but with a decreased conviction which she doesn't fail to notice.

"You are Belle," he hastily says at her change of expression. "But you don't have the memories that make you Belle... or at least, not the Belle I..._ we_ know. But I'll find a way to reverse it, to give you back your memories. It may take a time, but I'm going to find a way."

She listens closely to his reply, considering the girl who she is and the woman who she is supposed to be, according to the people she's met. It's as confusing as it is wonderful, an undeniable part of her wanting to have the life those people are hinting at... to _be_ the woman who is free and has people, _friends_, who care for her.

"Would it be all right for me to... be Belle?"

She might be Belle according to him and the others, but she doesn't _feel_ like Belle, whoever she is or has been. The last thing she want is being an impostor, to try to be someone who she is not. And yet...

She expected him to agree immediately, given how eager he was before. But he is reluctant to answer her, studying her intently instead. She can almost _see_ the carefully considered thoughts running through his head, along with the strong emotions which all but consume him whenever they meet. It's easy to imagine the two extremes clashing violently, rationality and emotion struggling for domination within him.

The silence grows and she becomes uncomfortable once more as she thinks of the answers he might give her. The way he tried to bring back her memories earlier implies that he really, _really_ wants her to be the woman he remembers with such fondness.

But that doesn't change that she isn't that woman any longer, not as long as she can't recall anything of the life she apparently had. Indeed, Belle highly doubts that she could be the woman she is said to be even if she wanted to as desperately as this man does.

"You should be who you want to be. In a way, you are the woman who I know. But without your memories... But you are your own person no matter what. I think you should try to be what feels true to you."

She nods at his words, agreeing. It's not just that she's intuitively the most comfortable with this option; she wouldn't really know how else to approach the unknown life ahead of her.

"Thank you," she says, placing a hand on his arm with only some hesitance to empathize her words. She isn't certain whether that gesture will help to make clear to him that she is truly grateful that he gives her helpful advice and is so willing to support her in the first place.

Judging from the way he smiles a little and carefully covers her hand with his own, just for a moment, she has definitely succeeded.

She makes a point of storing this information to the back of her mind, intend on making new memories in case it's true that she can't access her old ones. Either way, she is more and more convinced that she wants to spend more time with this man. She wants to get to know him better, to comfort him again if needed, and such gestures will perhaps be very useful in the future.

"And thank _you_," he says, adding to her confusion by repeating her earlier words of gratitude. His words are so heartfelt that they seem to refer to much more than the way she just held him, which is the only reason she can think of for him to express such thankfulness.

"Whatever for?" If anything, she has only upset him so far, no matter how inadvertently. "As far as I can remember I've met you only a few times, and all I seem to do is hurt you."

"I was the one who upset you," he says, raising his voice slightly. "I shouldn't have pushed you and I can't apologize enough for doing so. You were... frightened of me. And yet, you came to me when you saw me here. You helped me when you didn't have any reason to do so. And you did it anyway."

"I'm glad I did. It's true that you scared me, before, but... you are not like I thought you were."

She studies him, focusing merely on his physical appearance for the first time now that he just sits there, patiently enduring her gaze.

His suit is rumpled and she has never seen anything quite like the various layers of black material, but she can tell that his clothing is as beautiful and impressive as it must be expensive. She recalls that he walked with the aid of a cane and that his leg was awkwardly bended when she held him, but there's no visible injury that would require such a tool now that he is sitting next to her like this.

His hair is quite long, much more so than any of the men she has seen when she was brought back to the hospital. The strands are dark, the bits of gray she spots limited to his temples. His cheeks and chin are stubbled and there are wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his skin is tanned and mostly smooth.

"You are kind to an old man," he mutters, as if the mere lack of disgust in her eyes is an unexpected compliment. It helps her identify his tone as self-conscious and informs her that he thinks really quite lowly of himself.

"You're not old," she replies, almost intuitively. She pointedly meets his gaze, wanting to make an end to the loathing in his voice. She imagines that she could get lost in the depths of his eyes, possibly the most striking part of him. There's something in there, something more golden than brown and so very deep, which gives her the strange impression that he isn't necessarily referring to his physical age.

There's so much pain in his eyes, evidence of such loneliness and suffering, almost too much for a single lifetime. She knows these feelings so very well and yet, her expression wasn't nearly as haunted and lost as his whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the washing room.

"You tend to say that," he replies, his voice barely audible and with so much hope and disbelief that she can barely stand it.

"I can imagine," she says, just as softly. Her cheeks turn red at this admission and she is vaguely shocked to speak out loud like this, but she wants him to know that his age doesn't bother her in the slightest.

She very clearly recalls the sensation of slightly chapped yet soft lips against her own, finding this particular memory not nearly as terrifying as before. Although she doesn't dare speculate how she would react to him this time, she most definitely wouldn't scream now if he were to kiss her once more.

He is not the sort of man she imagined herself sharing her life with when she had nothing but empty fantasies to pass the time. Yet now that she is getting to know him like this, she can imagine having been in love with this man... and falling in love with him all over again.


	4. Part 4

Part 4

Her thoughts of kisses and romance, of _love_, remind her that he never said that they are in a relationship of such a kind. It seems so obvious, despite that, from the way he looks at her – and can't stop doing so - to the way he doesn't want to let go off her.

She shouldn't know these things, not if she has actually been locked up all this time. Still, the awareness that her life isn't what she thinks it is, is becoming at least just as strong as her earlier conviction that none of this can be real. But despite the never ending implications, he hasn't actually _said _it.

"We... we were together, weren't we?"

She wants – _has_ – to be certain, needs to find out as much about her supposed life as she can. She doesn't want to misunderstand, to be unaware... not again.

"Yes, we are. _Were_, I should say. Even before your accident, we..."

He shakes his head, as if forcing himself to stop talking that way. His confusion and frustration is almost palpable. She can completely relate to that sentiment, especially because his reply, albeit short and direct, causes only more questions of her own.

"Were we married?"

She already is quite certain that this is not the case, if only for the lack of wedding ring on his finger. It's another of those things that she _knows_ without knowing. She just hopes that starting with a question that is relatively simple to answer will make it easier for him to share more complicated matters with her.

"We weren't," he replies without reluctance, a brief flicker of longing telling her that he regrets this.

"Were we together for a long time?"

She wishes she was better at this, that she could pry for information without being so very obvious about it. But this is important; at least knowing of the nature of the relationship between herself and this man might finally give her some of the peace of mind she has been craving all this time.

"Time is quite... relative here. But no, we haven't been together for long. We have known each other for only a while."

"For how long have we known each other?" she prompts, grateful for the easiness of her next question now that her mind is swimming almost more than it has done since waking up outside the hospital a few days ago.

"About a year. We've been... together for a few weeks. We lived together, in my house, before you moved to an apartment of your own."

Grateful as she is that he provides this information without further questions, these answers too only add to her confusion. By the sound of it, they have barely known each other, had a relationship that couldn't have been more than a few months old.

Yet, he looks at her like she is such a major part of his life, as if he can't truly exist without her... and there something inside of her, somewhere, that relates.

"It hasn't been easy. I'm... I'm a difficult man to love. And there are people who... I have enemies. Some of them used you to strike against me. That's how you ended up here... both times."

She clings to his every word, her entire being focused on what he is telling her, but she finds it almost impossible to process what he is saying. She can imagine - quite easily, in fact - for a man such as him to have enemies who are willing to go great lengths to hurt him. But to use _her_, apparently causing her to end up in the hospital not once but twice...

"Try not to worry," he adds, eyes pleading with her as if he wishes that he could take back what he just said, if only not to add to her anxiety. "You are safe now. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that no harm comes to you ever again."

There's something in his eyes, something so very earnest and hopeful and _fierce_ that she is immediately and fully convinced of his sincerity.

"But why me?" she asks, aware of what he is saying but not entirely understanding it. "Why use me to hurt you?"

"Because the people who want to hurt me know that you are all what matters to me here," he says, his hand reaching for hers in the periphery of her vision. "Because I..."

He swallows harshly, pulling his hand away before it has touched hers.

"Because you what?" she urges as gently as she can, needing to hear it, to be entirely sure that it's _real_.

She covers his hand with her own, the gesture slightly awkward in its unusualness - for her, at least. Still, there is an unexpected pleasantness in the gentle touch, something which she wishes to learn more of - to _have_ more of.

"Belle..."

He all but chokes on the name of which she knows by now that it is hers, tears welling in his eyes. Although the name still feels so very unfamiliar, so completely unlike her, it doesn't sound that wrong and intimidating any longer as it is being uttered by him like this.

The man opposite her is so lost, so broken, barely capable of speech. She can see now that _this_ is what drove him to inadvertently scaring her earlier. Not anger or any of the harmful reasons she presumed, but affection and tenderness and...

"Because I love you."

He looks up at her several seconds after speaking, his expression raw and so very vulnerable, as if he expects her to tear out his heart and squash it below her feet, right in front of him.

It's as if a mask has fallen away. Whoever he might be, whoever he wants to be, it's like she's seeing him at his purest form now, the love he declares for her at the center of everything he has said and done in the past few days.

Now she is the one who has to fight back tears. She doesn't know this man, not really, but by now she is beginning to believe that she has. Similarly, it's clear to her that there's only one type of love he is referring to. He confirmed her assumption that they were 'together', but it's so much more than just that, whatever that single four letter word might mean exactly for them.

It's because their clasped hands are like an anchor, grounding her to the world, to life itself. Because there are tears in his eyes just like there are in hers and because there is a strange feeling in her chest, right where her heart is.

They were together, they were _in love_, experienced something so wonderful she could barely have imagined it. But she has known it, with him, and she can't remember.

There's a stirring inside of her, of things that are there but that she can't access, of knowing that she and this man had something very special.

And now that she doesn't have any memories of it, it's almost like it hasn't been there at all.

"I can't remember," she murmurs, the quiet exclamation this time a plea instead of an apology. "I can't recall any of it... of _us_."

"I know," he breathes, sounding as forlorn as before, but not nearly quite as desperate.

He reaches for her face, this time only with some hesitation, and wipes her tears away before they can fall down her cheeks.

He is blinking furiously and she brings her hands to his face in return, experimentally brushing the moisture near his eyes away with her thumb.

They share a watery smile, their hands remaining at the side of one another's faces.

"There are ways... there are solutions. Possibly. I'll do anything in my power to find a way to restore your memories. I swear it, Belle. I won't rest until I have undone this."

Her tears are falling again at his declaration, the devotion and loyalty of a man she can't remember giving her hope of a kind she didn't know existed. At the same time, what he says reminds of the way she unintentionally ruined his earlier attempt to return her memories.

"I broke your cup," she says, gesturing at the shards next to them, not really daring to look at them. "I'm truly sorry. I wish I hadn't done that, even if it weren't for my memories. It's important to you, to _us_ I suppose, and I shouldn't have..."

"It's not your fault, Belle. I should have left you alone. I shouldn't have pushed you and..." He shakes his head, but not looking as upset as she presumed given his earlier reactions. "We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

"We have," she smiles back at him, glad that they can at least talk like this now - and that she is at least capable of remembering _this_. "But I'd like to say again that it's all right. It really is. I was scared of what you did and because you wouldn't leave at first. But I'm not afraid any more."

The fear he evoked within her before is erased only more at the way he looks at her then, almost as if he is proud to her hear say this.

"The kiss was an attempt as well," he says, his voice softer than ever before and his eyes again not meeting hers. "I deeply regret doing that, Belle. But it worked before and I wanted you to have your memories back so badly... I didn't think of what it would be like for you in case it wouldn't help. I didn't dare to."

There's a turmoil of images and emotions and _feelings_ at his words. It's hardly the first time that she recalls his kiss, far from it, but it's different this time. Now that she has seen another side of him, it's as if her memory of the kiss has expanded, like she's recalling new things about it only now.

Heat rises to her cheeks as she vividly remembers the sensation of his lips being pressed against her, so tender and careful and _loving_ before her shock and the resulting fear overrode that. It makes it difficult to fully process what else he is saying.

"How can a kiss bring back memories?" she asks, before she might give voice to the increasing awareness that, in retrospect, she _really_ doesn't mind all that much that he kissed her. Indeed, in that vague moment between sleep and wakefulness it had felt _nice_ to have her lips touched by his. Very nice.

"It's..." The look he gives her is one of hopelessness. "It won't sound believable to you."

"Try me," she says, hoping that her small smile will persuade him that she's ready to believe so much more than just an hour ago.

"It's magic," he replies, giving her a depreciating gesture of apology, telling her this way that he is aware of how ridiculous he might sound, but that there's nothing he can do about that if he wants to be honest with her. "True Love is the most powerful magic of all. There are few things that can't be achieved with it."

The mere notion of magic, let alone the concept of True Love of all things, should be too bizarre to even consider. But he looks utterly convinced and although she has no idea how exactly a kiss could bring back her memories, there's the same _something_ inside of her as before that recognizes the power and the truthfulness of his words.

"True Love," she breathes, awed and only slightly confused by now. More than anything, she wonders at the implication of those two words. She may have lost such a beautiful thing, but there are ways to bring it back, ways to _remember_. The wonderfulness which they - apparently - have known, albeit briefly, may not be lost forever after all.

And then she's crying again, of hope and joy this time. He must recognize her current lack of sadness and despair, for his expression of horror changes into another one of those watery smiles, his chin trembling ever so slightly.

They move closer together and after a brief, almost happy nod from her, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against his chest, his embrace firm but ever so careful. It had felt good to hold him, like she did earlier, but the other way around is at least just as pleasant, especially now that her tears and need for nearness are caused by joy rather than fear or sorrow.

The part of her neck which is closest to his face is getting damp once more. She cards her hand through his hair like she learned to do a short while ago as she finds him weeping again as well.

He lets out a sob in reaction, but she too is aware that it's not a sign of distress this time. She simply tightens her hold on him, trying to get as close as she can to receive and give comfort alike... to get as close as possible to _him. _


	5. Part 5

Part 5

Her face is pressed against the incredible softness of his dark blue shirt, his scent unlike anything she has consciously experienced before. Much as she'd like it to be otherwise, she can't recall his smell, something subtly and uniquely him, along with what must be wool, woodsmoke and soap of a kind she has never used.

Her arms are locked behind his neck and he runs his hands gently up and down her back, evoking the most lovely sense of safety and comfort that way. Wanting to make him feel the same way, she experimentally mimics his gestures, stroking his back with initially uncertain hands.

She must be doing it right, for he sighs in unmistakable contentment and rests his head on her shoulder. His face is close to the bare skin of her neck and when she continues her movements, he pushes himself lightly against her.

It's strange to have him near her like this, but in a wonderful way. Sensing that she can make it better still, she places her head on his shoulders as well, moving as close to him as she can, in the same way as he is holding her.

She shuts her eyes at the intensity of the subsequent sensations, feeling as if he is everywhere around her, enveloping her. It's like he's shielding her from everything she ever feared in life, while at the same time giving her so much wonderfulness she never had.

Two pairs of hands never ceasing their gentle caresses, he all but slumps against her once more. This time he is overtaken by something entirely different than his earlier despair, but that doesn't make her any less eager to comfort him. She brushes her nose against the side of his neck with a playfulness and familiarity which is completely unjustified, or at least that's what she would have thought an hour ago.

"_Sweetheart_..."

She stills after all, more because of the tone of his voice than the actual term of endearment he uses. He abruptly withdraws from her embrace, all tension which left him when he was in her arms almost visibly catching up with him.

"I'm sorry, Belle. That just slipped out. I shouldn't have..."

"It's all right," she says, and not just because she wants to banish this new pain and regret from him.

"I understand that you aren't comfortable being addressed like that. I'll make sure not to..."

"No, really. It's _all right_, Rumple." His name is still a strange thing to her, but not because of the - for as far as she can tell - unusual sound of it. But she most definitely is aware of the power it has, both bewildering and calming him whenever she speaks it. "I... I like the way you say it. The way it makes me feel. I can't remember, I know that, but... I enjoy being called like that."

She looks up at him through her lashes, wondering how she has grown so bold to talk like this, to express her thoughts to openly. The answer is right in front of her, warm brown eyes lighting up in reaction to her words, a tentative smile finding its way to his lips.

"And I enjoy calling you that," he says, taking her hand without hesitation and squeezing it lightly. "But the moment it starts making you uncomfortable, this or anything else I might say or do, please promise me that you'll tell me. I'll do all I can then to make an end to it."

"I will," she replies, looking at him in wonder. For as long as she can remember, no one has ever considered what she actually wants or prefers. And it's not as if she actually knew anyone but the nurses who shoved her meals into her cell and forced her to take her medication, women who never talked to her but for the shortest of commands. "I promise."

Just sitting here is a novelty, with no walls to contain her and with someone at her side who she can actually talk to. Being with him is more important than the lack of locked doors. To be treated like her comfort actually matters, to be treated as a human being, _that_ is freedom.

"How often did you call me that?"

She isn't entirely certain whether she can just ask him this, whether it's appropriate to do so given the circumstances, but she can't help but wonder, no doubt as a result of the warmth that is spreading through her now that he has addressed her like this. The two syllables are echoing in her head, filling the emptiness there.

"Why are you asking?" Much to her relief, there's nothing but curiosity in his voice.

"I suppose I'd like to know as much as I can about us. The more you tell me, the more I wish I could remember. It all sounds wonderful and it... it hurts not to know. Or maybe, if you used to say it often... I hope you'll do so again now. I'd love to have that to look forward to."

He smiles a little again, that alone enough to let her know that he'll call her that as often as she'd like him to. But then he looks more grim, like he seems to do much more often than not.

"I didn't say it all that often. Really, we haven't been together for long and when we were..." He glances up at her, as if afraid again that whatever he means to tell her will anger her. She squeezes his hand again, hoping to let him know that way that she won't get upset with him for simply telling the truth. "It wasn't always wonderful. I couldn't always be the man who you wanted me to be. A _good_ man. I knew that, and I tried, but..."

He shakes his head, lowering it, his hair falling before his face like a curtain. Intuitively, she pushes it back with the hand that isn't holding his, momentarily distracted by the lovely softness of the wild strands of his hair.

Honey brown eyes are looking back at her, gentle and so very, very weary.

"I wanted to call you that every single time I talked to you. But I couldn't believe that you really were with me, that you truly wanted to. And each time I said that word to you, it would be the moment you'd realize you'd be much better off without me."

"That's not much of a relationship," she breathes, horrified. She barely knows anything of such things, but this can't be right. How could they have been happy, how could they have been truly in love, if he doubted her feelings for him so very much?

"I suppose not," he rasps, utterly miserable. He withdraws his hand from her, as if he doesn't want to be touching her any longer... as if he is _unworthy_.

"That's not what I meant," she says quickly, his reaction only confirming her suspicion. She struggles to find the right words, anything to understand why he is so very sad despite their apparently previously confirmed love and their current reconciliation of sorts. "Rumple..."

He only shrinks further away from her at the mentioning of his name, but she won't have it. Scooting over to close the growing distance between them, she matter-of-factly takes his hands in her own again, as if drawing him back from whatever reason he's trying to hide from her.

"From what you are telling me... it sounds like we had something beautiful. _Have_. Because I can't remember it, doesn't mean that it isn't real. It isn't just gone now that I can't recall it, or is it?"

"I suppose not," he replies again, this time sounding more hopeful than ashamed.

"Whatever there was between us, it can't have been all that good if you felt like you couldn't be fully open with me, that you couldn't even address me the way you wanted to the most. I can imagine that there were things that you didn't want to discuss with me."

He is very quiet when she talks, just letting her words wash over him despite the obvious discomfort they cause him. It strengthens her growing awareness that the relationship which she seems to have had with this man wasn't as stable as he wanted it to be.

"I've got the feeling that there were a lot of things that we didn't talk about. As if we weren't open and honest with one another. It's... it's not as if _I_ would know, the way I am now, but that doesn't sound pleasant to me. I don't think that's what a relationship should be like."

It's the strangest thing, really, how she gets all these notions and opinions in her head of things she never considered before, things she was never aware of before, just by talking to him. It makes her more convinced that what he is telling her is true, that there has been at least a while in which she hasn't been locked up in the hospital... a time in which she was free and content, perhaps even happy... a time she was with _him_.

She isn't capable of remembering it, but she might one day... or not. But even then, she may not necessarily need her memories to have happiness. Not while he is with her, promising her again and again that he'll do anything in his power to help make her feel better... to let her be unafraid and _happy. _

"I would want it to be different," she says quietly, brushing her thumb over his hand. "If we were to be together again, I wouldn't want you to be afraid of calling me exactly what you would like to. I would want both of us to be honest, about everything."

"Sweetheart, I..."

There still is a sense that she has no right to do this, that he isn't _hers_, when she lets go off one of his hands in order to brush the tears away which are welling in his eyes again. But the ease with which she soothes him in a way she hadn't thought herself capable of no longer confuses her. She simply focuses all her attention on cupping his cheeks in her palms instead of wondering whether she should actually be doing this.

"I barely know about the past and I don't know about the future. I don't know about _us_. Perhaps I never will, not like it seems that I used to. But we can try to make the best of it, can't we? To find a way, a _good_ way, together?"

He nods weakly, eyes wet and bright, and her heart surges at seeing him like this, so much at odds with the broken shell of a man he was before.

But he isn't the only one who is flourishing beneath her very gaze. Talking with him like this has hope blossoming inside of her, an ever growing sense that there is a point to her life after all, that she has something beautiful to live for.

"I think I'd like that," she breathes, savoring her touch of him. Not only because he has become her anchor, something to hold on to in a world which is confusing and scary, but also because she has found that she _likes_ touching him.

There's the ever present doubt, a fear that she can't live up to his expectations, that she's not truly whom he wants - whom he _needs_. But there's an optimism when he cups her hand which is holding this, grounding her further. There's hope in the way he holds her gaze and never lets go, looking at _her _instead of the woman she's supposed to be.

Her courage growing each minute she spends with him, she strokes her fingers along his cheeks without any hesitation whatsoever. She mirrors the soft noise of appreciation she evokes from him with the tender and still inexperienced touch, the combination of the roughness of his stubble and the softness of his skin making her feel in a way she has never done before.

He leans into her hand, seeking more of her touch, and she is more than happy to oblige. Her other goes to his hair, her curious fingers carefully carding through it, and there's a part of her of which she was never aware of before, a part which trembles in something very much unlike fear, when his eyes close and the volume of the noises which are coming from him increase.

She is unaware that she moves closer to him, her gaze intent on his face. It's intriguing, _beautiful_, so much more so now that there isn't a sign of anger or fear, when the worry and pain is replaced by hope and tentative joy.

It's a strange thing to know that she alone has caused these changes within him, but there's no denying them as he actually smiles a little when she whispers his name. The awe and affection in her voice when she does so should be stranger still, but knowing what she does now, it's almost natural to be with him like this, to enjoy his nearness like he so obviously cherishes hers.

Cradling his face, she marvels at the delight of experiencing something like this with another human being, at sharing this sort of connection.

And just like that, their current nearness isn't enough anymore.

She slowly closes the distance between them, her apparent hesitance caused by anticipation rather than reluctance or nerves. For the same reason she lingers briefly when she is right in front of him, savoring his uneven breathing and wide eyes.

"I'd really like us to find a way together," she whispers into the few inches of air between them, as if she can make her wish come true that way.

She has no idea whatsoever of the _how_ of this, but that too doesn't appear to matter all that much when she intuitively – again, almost familiarly - brushes her lips against his forehead, the gesture one of gratitude and affection.

He _shudders_ at the contact, taking away any last doubts she may have had on the effects she has on him. Wanting to take away _his _doubts as well, she remains right where she is for several delightful seconds, her eyes closed in enjoyment of his nearness.

When she withdraws, she settles herself next to him, her head on his shoulder and her hands in his, smiling broadly.

No matter when she'll regain her memories, no matter if she'll do so at all, she has found happiness now that she has him, and she's going to hang on to both of them for all she is worth.


	6. Part 6

Part 6

Sitting closely next to the man who has become the center of her life in such a short time, it's tempting to just stay like that, comfortable and content. Especially when he moves a careful arm around her, only resting it ever so lightly on her waist as she smiles and nods, she wishes that she could just enjoy this nearness.

But there are things she wants to ask him, a great many of them. He has told her a lot, but there's so much more she needs to know in order to find more than a fleeting peace of mind, to _understand. _The list with questions in her head grows only longer the more she thinks of it.

There is a single question that stands out though, the one that has been bothering her the most ever since she found herself at the town line, having no idea whatsoever who she actually is.

This never seemed to matter all that much when she was still locked up in the basement, if only because she was convinced that there would never be any need for her to have an identity.

It didn't matter back then that she was confused and _blank_, not even knowing her own name. But now she is here, with him, hearing of a woman who has enchanted him so completely.

She isn't sure whether she can be that woman, apparently the very woman who she is supposed to be, whatever that means exactly. Either way, she really wants to try, more than she ever wanted anything throughout the years. But in order to do that, she'll have to learn more of the person of whom he speaks with such longing and affection.

"Can you tell me about her?" she asks, awfully aware that she's asking about _herself,_ as if she is a different person altogether. "About what she's like?"

"It's probably better if I don't tell you about her... about _you._ I'd like you to be who you are, right now, not trying to be who you think you should be."

"Do you?" she urges quietly, very much aware of his reluctant tone. Besides, the memory of him doing just about anything to make her remember is one that hasn't escaped her.

"Yes," he replies after a few seconds, sounding entirely sincere. "You lost your memories and there's nothing we can do about that now. Those memories are part of what make you _you._ They can't be replaced; they have to be regained."

His speech falters for a moment, but he continues after taking an audible breath of air.

"Besides, you should be who you are, not who I want you to be. I have to admit that those aren't necessarily the same."

"I... I appreciate that," she says, thoughtful of both his actual words and the fact that they differ so much from what he did before this evening. "But isn't there anything you can tell me? Some facts? I know _nothing_, Rumple, and..."

She shakes her head in frustration, struggling to find the words, anything, which might explain to him what it does to her, not knowing even the most basic of things about herself.

"I think it's better if you don't hear about yourself from me."

"Why is that?" she asks, noting that his earlier reluctance has returned.

"Our relationship is... controversial. Many don't believe that you truly want to be with me... they say that I'm forcing or manipulating you, one way or another. I can't truly blame them for that. _I_ don't understand why you kept coming back to me. Given my own involvement, I should be the last person to influence your perception of our relationship now that you can't remember whatever it was that persuaded you not to leave me like everyone thought you should."

She nods slowly in partial agreement. She understands his reasoning and appreciates his caution. Then again, _he _is the one who has been supporting her, much unlike the 'many' who apparently condemn their relationship.

"I'd really like to hear it from _you_. Not everything, just... just some things, the same that anyone else might tell me. You're the only one I trust. Not because of what you told me about us being together, but because you were the only one who helped me or even came to see me in the past few days."

"Oh, Belle..."

He's reaching for her again, eyes full of hope and awe and wonder, and she can imagine that it's hardly the first time that he looks at her like this, as if he can't believe that this is real. Her eyes flutter closed in enjoyment when he brushes his knuckles against her cheek, a gesture that too is almost familiar.

"We met in a different land... a different world."

She forces herself to open her eyes when he begins to talk, not wanting to miss anything now that he has started to tell her about their past after all. New questions are already erupting in her mind, both about the characteristics of this 'different world' and how something like that can exist in the first place. But she remains quiet, for now, and just listens now that he is talking after all.

"There was a war. Your father was losing. He requested me to defeat the ogres that his army was fighting. I accepted, but I demanded a price. I always did... and I still do. There was very little he had to offer. But there was a young woman with him that night, as part of his war council... a courageous and intelligent woman, and beautiful too."

He doesn't cease to touch her during his tale, which is lovely despite making it slightly difficult to actually focus on what he is saying.

"You were the only one who wasn't afraid of me. Not just there, but anywhere in the realm. I would never have admit it back then, but I was a lonely man, living at a large castle without any company. No one would voluntarily stay there with me... or so I thought before meeting you. I demanded you to come live with me, as caretaker of my estate, in return for the safety of your village. Your father and fiancé forbade it... but you came with me anyway."

She is hardly aware that she's on the edge of her seat in her eagerness not to miss a word of what he says. From the moment he started talking, it's clear to her that the 'woman' he is referring to is her, whether he is aware that he changes from describing her in third to second person or not.

"On your very first day, you dropped the cup in which you were going to serve me my tea," he continues, her eyes widening in realization. He hesitates, doubtlessly knowing as well as she does that he tried to tell her this before, to very unpleasant results. Only after another small smile from her, he goes on. "It didn't break when it fell, but it was chipped. You thoroughly apologized, but it was as if you were more concerned because of the cup itself than for my reaction. And that's when I was beginning to find out..."

He shakes his head, his gaze distant, lost in a memory only he can cherish, for now at least. She looks at the shards next to her, her guilt for destroying the cup increasing much more rapidly than it already had.

"We didn't spend all that much time together at first. We were both mostly at work, in different parts of the castle. I wasn't sure how to... well, how to talk to you. You never reacted the way I thought you would. You confused me, I suppose. But after a while you insisted on having tea with me, saying I was going to have to talk to you if I didn't want to end up with a housekeeper who forgot how to talk in the first place. It became a lot easier after that. It turned out that talking to you wasn't difficult at all. It was like you... understood."

His narration doesn't trigger any memories, but it makes it easy for her to imagine these events of her past – _their _past – in her mind's eye.

"I was falling in love with you," he adds, taking a deep breath and looking almost apologetic. "But I was certain that you could never feel the same way about me. You were kind and lovely, but... I am a monster, and I never forget that."

She opens her mouth to object. She may barely know him at this point and he might have done horrible things, but there is a side of him that couldn't be further from what he is currently describing. But she doesn't interrupt him this time either, wanting him to continue talking now that he has opened up like this.

"I let you go. I expected I would never see you again... but you returned. And you... you _kissed_ me."

Everything about him betrays that he can't believe this even now. Her heart aches at seeing him like this, so completely incapable of believing that she would willingly kiss him... and _she _was the one who was repulsed by the very notion until only a short while ago.

"It was perfect. And I ruined it," he whispers, his regret almost tangible. "Your kiss began to break my curse. I thought that you had done it on purpose, to take my powers away from me. I was convinced that you were working with Regina."

He spits out the woman's name with such hatred that she momentarily forgets about the curse he is referring to.

"Who is Regina?" she asks, not wanting to interrupt him but beginning to understand less and less of what he's saying.

"The Evil Queen," he replies. "It's a long story."

A single quirked eyebrow tells him that this isn't an acceptable answer for her.

"My role in it is something I'm not proud of," he says slowly, resigned. "but I saw it as a necessary measure at the time. These days... I prefer not to think of it. Regina and I have a long history. She was my apprentice before she..."

He sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging, but continues talking.

"I... I used her. I manipulated her to cast the curse that brought us here. It worked, but I lost control over her long before that. She tried to defeat me, to become more powerful than me. The only way she could do so was by taking my powers from me."

His explanation adds yet more questions she wants answered. She attempts to memorize each and every single one that pops into her head, not deterred by the apparent impossibility of it.

"True Love's kiss was a way to make an end to my powers. Regina must have known that. I thought you were cooperating with her and that you used our feelings for her purposes. I was... upset."

Judging from the way the volume of his voice lowers yet more, the last word barely audible, 'upset' is an understatement. It doesn't help that he can no longer look at her, focusing on the floor at her feet instead.

"I threw you out. You pleaded for me to let you stay and to open up to you. But I couldn't, not when thinking that it was all a trick. Despite the evidence of our feelings, I was convinced that you didn't really love me. You left, eventually."

His voice is hoarse, shaking, the memory of these events still visibly hurting him.

"No news of you reached me for a few weeks and I didn't go looking for it. I had no reason to presume that you had done anything other than returning either to your father or to Regina. But then _she_ came by one afternoon and she told me..."

It's as if telling her this is physically hurting him. He is trembling and she doesn't dare imagining how horrible those events must have been for him.

She makes gratefully use of the experience she has developed in consoling him. She shifts closer to him and gently guides him towards her as well, until his head is resting on her shoulder again and her arms are on his back, rubbing him gently.

"She told me you died," he says, struggling to keep his words intelligible as he whispers them against the side of her neck. "She told me that you had gone home and that your father shunned you, that he locked you up and attempted to have you... _cleansed_ because you had lived with me. You were treated violently and cruelly... or at least, that's what Regina said, and that you... leapt from the tower... she said that you _died_."

She pulls him closer to her, muttering words that'll hopefully bring him some solace. Just hearing this makes her shiver, both the story he tells her and the way he reacts to it so very painful. She can't imagine what it must be like for him, to remember it directly.

"I don't know what truly happened to you. I never made sure that she hadn't lied. I _should_ have, but I... Thinking that you were gone, it hurt so much. And it was all my fault. If I hadn't thrown you out, if I would have treated you properly and not let get my anger and suspicion the better of me... I never forgot about you. There was no hour that went by in which I didn't wish at least once that you were still with me."

She rocks him gently, relieved when he relaxes a little. She doesn't know what to say to him so she doesn't say anything, by now quite certain that there are very few more calming things to him than the way she is holding him now.

"Regina cast the curse eventually. We ended up here. And one day, many years later, you walked into my shop. A former... associate of Regina freed you from here, but your memories were gone. At first, you didn't remember anything of your life in our home world."

"I lost my memories before?" she asks, interrupting him despite her eagerness to hear as much of her own history as she can, his retelling of her past much more detailed than she thought it would be.

He says so many things that she doesn't fully understand, places and people she can't imagine let alone remember, but this part of his tale resembles her current life so closely that she can't help but interrupt him immediately.

"You did," he says, sighing deeply. "Regina took them from you. They were restored eventually."

"By True Love's kiss?" she asks, eyes lighting up because she knows this now. "Or the teacup?"

"It wasn't like that," he replies, sounding so very, very old. "It's... it's complicated. And a long story. Very long. I'd love to tell you one day, but this isn't the right moment. It had nothing to do with that. Regina's curse was broken, that's how you got your memories back."

"What happened then?" she asks, her mind spinning more than it has done at any moment in the past few days, but in a way that's for once not entirely unpleasant.

"You moved in with me," he replies, still clinging to her. "That's when we were together, for a few weeks. But we argued, we quarreled. You were right about everything, about my dependence on magic... dark magic. But I couldn't give it up. That's why you left."

There are so many things she wants to say to that and there are yet more questions that his narration raises. But she remains quiet this time, aware of how difficult it is for him to tell her this, and that she might have only a single chance to hear this from him.

If there's something she has learned in the past years, it's patience. Besides, she can do something now that's so much better than simply waiting for anything to happen, for her apparent life story to be told to her.

Already having found more than she could have dreamed of, she simply tightens her hold on the man in her arms, quietly awaiting the moment he'll be ready to continue their tale.


	7. Part 7

Part 7

It's quite some time until he continues talking. Much as she dislikes seeing him overcome by the emotions that recalling their past life cause, she's also grateful for the brief respite. It gives her the chance to consider what he has told her so far, to fully realize that she apparently left him, despite the love between them.

"I let you go. I could barely do it, but I knew I had to. For once, I did all I could to do the right thing. I still don't know how you could forgive me, but you did. You remained living at your new home, but we went to see each other several times a week to share meals, or just to talk or be together. We were interrupted more often than not, but we grew closer. We talked, really talked, probably for the first time in this world... or ever. I think we would have gotten back together eventually, if it weren't for..."

He makes a sound closely resembling a growl, but she isn't frightened, knowing that it's not directed at her and by now very much aware that he would never do anything to harm her.

"What happened?" she asks softly, bringing one hand up to stroke his hair again, sensing that the soothing gesture is more than welcome.

"I had to leave town. Although we both wished that you could come with me, it wasn't possible for you to join me. We said our goodbyes at the town line. I had to leave you there, but... You were magnificent, Belle. You said that you would wait for me. I was beginning to think that it would all end well after all. But Hook had found us. You were about to... to kiss me when he..."

He tightens his grasp on her, as if afraid that he'll lose her right there and then if he doesn't do so, his grasp becoming painful. She squeezes his hand and whispers his name to let him know, smiling against the crown of his head when he mutters an apology and loosens his hold on her immediately.

The mentioning of the person named Hook causes yet more questions, and so does his plan to leave town, but at least she doesn't have to ask to find out what happened when they were found by Hook, whoever he is. There isn't much that she remembers, but the pain and confusion, the _terror,_ is hard to forget.

"So that's how it happened," she mutters, more to herself than to him. She intuitively reaches for her shoulder, for a second almost still feeling her flesh burn.

"Hook shot you. The wound wasn't mortal and I healed it shortly afterwards, but the impact knocked you over the town line. That caused you to lose your memories. There wasn't anything I could do about it."

"So Regina is behind all this," she muses, "Regina and this Hook you mentioned."

"I have many enemies," he says, apologetic. "I presumed they weren't stupid enough to go after you. It's a mistake I'll never make again."

Much as she'd like to think that she wouldn't want him to get anywhere near the darkness she can sense within him, she can't help but appreciate that he'll use his power to look after her, to protect her. The woman she once was - the woman who she ought to be - would disapprove, judging of what he has told her so far, but the woman who she has become can't help but want the safety he can in all likelihood provide.

"What does Regina look like?"

Everything he has told her is swirling through her mind at a dizzying speed, connections being made slowly but surely. Regina was the one who held her in the basement; he hasn't explicitly told her, but she can read between the lines. Besides, except for the nurses, the only other person who she has ever seen there was the one to came to gloat_,_ the one with the cruel face and...

"She has black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, blood red lips..."

She gasps at hearing the exact description of the woman who found such twisted joy in her misery.

"What is it, sweetheart? Have you seen her? Did she come to you?"

"She did," she manages, the fear and the panic and the helplessness returning to her all at once. "She looked through the little window of my door sometimes, when I was still in the basement. She never talked or did anything, she just stood there and... watched. She terrified me."

Now she is the one clinging to him instead of the other way around, and his strong yet tender embrace is just as unconditional as the one she just gave him.

"I'm so sorry, Belle. I should have known. I should have _done_ something. But you're safe from her now. Something like that will never happen again, sweetheart. I promise. Never again."

She finds calmness and security of a kind she didn't know existed when he just holds her, caressing her hair ever so tenderly and whispering words of reassurance in her ear.

They remain sitting like that for a long time. She savors his nearness and the contentedness that comes with it, wishing that they could be like this forever, just sitting together and holding one another.

But he breaks away eventually, breathing in deeply one final time before doing so, regret written clearly on his face.

She shivers when they are no longer in each other's embrace. This time, it has nothing to do with fear or discomfort. The slightly increased distance is enough to leave her feeling chilly and bereft.

"You must be cold," he says, looking carefully at her.

It's the first time that he focuses his gaze on a part of her other than her face and she feels awfully self-conscious when he takes in the hospital gown she is still wearing. She is wearing little else and the worn gown doesn't do much to cover her limbs.

His distress tells her exactly just what he thinks of her lack of proper clothes, but if his only half intelligible mutterings about 'incompetent staff' are any indication, he doesn't think any less of her due to her current attire.

She vaguely recalls the clothes she was wearing when she was brought in, almost each item torn and dirty but still so very, very pretty. They were unlike anything she has seen before, let alone worn. She imagines that he really likes these clothes on her, given their snug cut and the flawlessness of the material he wears himself.

The loathing in his eyes is not caused by the way she is dressed now, only by the people who made her do so, who took her own clothes away from her. As suddenly as inexplicable, she has the feeling that he doesn't care what she wears, just as long she is free to chose the clothing herself.

"Are you?"

It takes her a moment to recall that he asked her a question and that she hasn't answered it yet. Despite her slight embarrassment for being lost in thought just when someone is trying to help her for the very first time, she doesn't need much considering to be able to answer him.

"Yes, I'm cold," she simply replies. She may not have been so before, but she is definitely quivering now that his nearness no longer holds the chilly air back from her bare limbs and pure adrenaline isn't flooding her any longer.

In response, he shrugs off the heavy overcoat he is wearing and drapes it around her before she can object.

"You need it more than I do," he says, as if aware that she means to tell him that she can't possibly accept this.

"Thank you," she says, hoping that it's clear to him that way just how grateful she is for his generous gesture. With the heavy yet wonderfully soft fabric around her, she feels a lot warmer immediately - although that may also be due to the fact that he cares enough for her to do this.

"It's no matter. You can keep it for as long as you like."

He withdraws his hands from her as soon as he has placed the coat around her shoulders. It's as if he is afraid that she objects to his accidental touch, not even having brushed his fingers against her when covering her with the lovely material.

Really, who is this man who can be dangerous at one moment and so very meek at another, who can go from being completely self-assured to so very, very uncertain in a matter of seconds?

"Well then," he says, all business-like as he takes his distance from her, abruptly standing up with a speed that surprises her, given the cane she hasn't seen him without so far. "Is there something I can do for you at this moment? I've talked to Dr. Whale; he said you have to stay for one more day for observation, but after that you can go. I'll arrange everything for you when the time comes, anything you want. But is there anything I can do for you right now?"

Her head is spinning with the sudden change within him, much more so than because of what he is actually asking her. He held on to her as if he never wanted to let go of her again just a few minutes ago, but now he looks as if he wants to get away from her as quickly as he can.

She regards him closely, once more wishing that she could remember him - if only because that might make it somewhat easier to interpret the myriad of emotions on his face.

Longing still written on his face, it dawns on her that he indeed intends to leave, but not because he wants to. Even now, he fears that his presence might unnerve her, or at least that it will start to do so if he stays with her for too long. After her subconscious behavior during the past few days, she isn't surprised by that. If only she would have known...

But she does now.

It's ironic, really. Since the moment she was brought back to the hospital, she wished for someone to properly explain to her what is going on, for not being locked up again and for having someone to simply talk to... a _friend_.

One way or another, she has achieved these three things now, all thanks to him. And yet, now that she has had a taste of what she supposes what normalcy must be like, of friendship, she doesn't want to let go. Quite the opposite, she wants to hold on to it for as long as she can... wants to hold on to _him_.

"Stay?"

She doesn't know how to go about these things, how to request someone to talk to you and remain at your side for just a while longer.

But it appears that her request suffices for at least some extent. He lingers, not stepping away from her like he originally must have intended.

"I don't want you to go," she mutters, figuring that honestly telling him what she thinks is the best way to communicate with him. "Can we just sit here for a while longer? To talk? It's... nice to have you near."

For a long time she was certain that there would never be anything in her life which might be characterized as 'nice'. But just the way his eyes lighten at her request is very pleasant indeed.

Still, there is a wariness to him. After the things he just told her of their relationship, she isn't surprised by this either.

"I know what you told me," she says quickly, attempting to take away his obvious worries. "If anything happens that makes me uncomfortable, I'll tell you, especially when you cause it. But you aren't scaring me anymore. I think I'll be uncomfortable if you _go_."

"I'd be very happy to stay with you for now," he admits, before carefully lowering himself back onto the seat he just vacated. Smiling tentatively, he sits down just an inch closer to her than he was before.

Just seeing him like this is a joy. It's miraculous how much his face changes on the few occasions that he smiles. He looks much less severe and tired, and not just from a lack of sleep. He seems younger, too, but what she likes the most is that he looks so very gentle, so much unlike the man who had fire burning in the palm of his hand and who terrified her just by being near her.

She pulls her bare feet onto the seat and covers them with the edges of the coat he gave her, delighting in the sensation of the soft fabric against her skin. Soon, she is warmer than she has ever been before, for as far as she can remember at least. Much more than the coat itself, it's his continued nearness which brings warmth to her heart and body alike.


	8. Part 8

Part 8

Sitting there in the hallway, with her supposed True Love at her side and his coat comfortably around her, she feels safe and protected. Despite all the new sides and layers she has seen of him this evening, she doesn't forget for a second that this is the very man who inadvertently scared her more than anything else in her life just a few days ago. There is no denying that there is something about him that should be too impossible to be true, if it weren't for the fact that she witnessed it herself.

It is so very tempting to ignore it, to savor this unknown closeness and warmth for as long as he is willing to give it. But she can't truly relax without having an explanation for the fireball in his hand and the blue haze that healed her.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" he asks quietly, almost as if he is afraid for what she might say. She doesn't know whether he already expected her unease or that he knows her so well that he can simply see that something is bothering her. Both possibilities are more appealing than they have any right to be.

"When we were on the road, in the forest, when you healed me..." she starts, figuring that it is better not to mention the fire which burned in his palm without hurting him and the look of pure hatred and anger on his face. The same goes for his rant about magic earlier that day, when he presented the cup to her as if it would miraculously fix her memory problems.

"What about it?" he asks, his expression and his posture as neutral as they can be. By now, she is quite sure that it's all a mask, a means to conceal his true emotions in order not to terrify her again.

"Can you truly do magic?" she blurts out, unable to keep from asking him about that what has been bothering her so much on top of everything else, as she finds nothing but gentle patience in his eyes.

"I can," he simply says. The statement would be utterly ridiculous coming from anyone else, but his steady gaze alone would have been enough to persuade her, even if she wouldn't have seen his acts of magic with her own eyes. "Would you like me to show you? Just a small example? To prove it?"

After years and years of complete isolation, she would welcome just about any distraction to break the bleak emptiness of her existence. But to watch _him_ do anything like what she saw in the forest through a daze of fear and pain... in all likelihood, it would be spectacular indeed.

More than that, she longs to get to get to know him better, to learn more of him. If magic is part of him, she wishes to understand it as much as she can.

Still, she doesn't allow herself to give in immediately to her probably misguided excitement. He can be threatening, even without mysterious fire in his hand. She doesn't dare think of all other things he might as well be capable of.

"It's not dangerous or harmful, is it?" she asks, not entirely managing to conceal her eagerness.

"There are many kinds of magic. The one I practice... it's dark. That's mostly due to its source, although there were many, many years that my own intent..."

He looks at her, shaking his head. It clearly troubles him to tell her this.

"I acquired these powers against my will, but they have become essential to me. My dependency on magic is stronger than myself, sometimes. Well, most of the time. You were helping me to change that."

The fact that he is actually telling her this, leaves her to think that she tried to change more than that alone. She only has to see the pained look on his face to know that those challenges weren't going all that well.

"Still," he says, relaxing a little, "I can use my magic for many purposes, not all of them unpleasant ones. I can show you, if you wish."

"Yes, please. But just something small, and not unpleasant."

Although there was an implicit warning in his earlier words, her curiosity is only fueled more. She just hopes that the conditions she gave will prevent anything bad from happening.

"Please behold," he says, smiling again, as if he is very much delighted by the prospect of doing this for her.

She watches him intently, her mouth actually falling open when a cloud of something like purple mist appears at a snap of his fingers. When it clears, he is holding a single red rose in his hand.

"How did you..."

Despite the obvious answer, this question is the one that most significantly springs to mind at the sight of this seemingly impossible display. Of all the things she might have expected, this wasn't one of them. To actually conjure something out of thin air, a _rose_ of all things...

And not just a rose. It's a blood-red rose of the type of which she somehow knows that it symbolizes romantic love.

"Here, if you'll have it..."

She hesitates for only a second before taking it, the look of sheer gratitude on his face more wonderful, more magical, than the flower which he made appear out of nowhere.

"Why, thank you."

She giggles a little, the sound just welling up from deep inside of her, sounding unfamiliar to her own ears. It might as well have been the first time that she ever laughed and she savors the utter joy of it.

"I'll gladly have it," she murmurs, wanting to make that as clear to him as she can when a flash of something bittersweet crosses his face for the briefest moments. It's almost as if her words remind him of something both beautiful and painful, something that she doesn't understand and can't do anything about.

"Any time. I mean it, Belle. Whenever there is something you need or want, anything at all... just come to me. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," she breathes, not sure how to react to this. She can't think of any words that might express just how grateful she is to him, how delighted she is by his extremely generous offer. "I... I don't think I can thank you enough."

"You don't need to," he says, his voice just as soft as hers.

Her shoulders sag a little at the expression on his face. He truly expects nothing in return for his efforts, as if it would be fine with him to provide for anything she could possibly need even if he were to rarely see her again.

"There's one thing though," she says, his earlier words echoing through her head. He seems to be under the impression that she intends to leave him, despite their love, and that just won't do.

"What is it, sweetheart? Name it, and I'll take care of it."

His eyes are burning with purpose and she has to clear the sudden lump from her throat in order to be able to continue talking audibly. After remembering nothing but loneliness and fear, it's incredible to have this man at her side, vowing to do whatever he can to help her. And yet, it isn't as good as it should be, not when he has so very little faith in their relationship.

"You said that I should come to you whenever I need something."

"I did, yes," he says, looking at her nervously. Whatever he expected her to say, this clearly wasn't it.

"I really appreciate that offer," she quickly says, wanting to make an end to his uncertainty. "It's just that... Rumple, I can't really _come_ to you when I'm already with you, or can I?"

His eyes widen in realization. She holds her breath when she sees the change come over him which her remark caused.

"You don't have to say that, Belle. The offer stands no matter what."

"Do you really think I would say that if I didn't mean it?"

It's a bit of a risk, but there's a strong urge to be nothing but honest with this incredible man. She has the feeling that it's similar for the woman he remembers.

"No, sweetheart, I don't think that. But..."

She can't help but smile again, aware that her assumption was completely right.

"No 'buts'," she says, reaching to take his hand again to reassure him. She has discovered that those little touches can calm him down or persuade him much more easily and completely than any of the words she has found so far. It's almost as surprising as finding herself so bold to talk to him like this in the first place, almost berating a man who is so much more powerful than her.

He takes her lower arm in his hands, his quite abrupt touch belied by his trembling fingers. To her confusion, he brings her hand to his mouth, his lips hovering just above her skin.

"Can I..."

She doesn't know what he is referring to at first. But then his warm breath is ghosting over her skin and he nervously licks his lip, and she has a fairly good idea.

"_Yes_," she breathes, realizing then that it's not true that he is more powerful than her. He might be able to do the most impossible of things, and others might fear him, but there's something about her that doesn't make her one of them. She doesn't know how or why, but there's something about her that has him granting her every wish, as if she is the one who can do magic and holds so much power.

That's the last rational thought she has for quite some time. For when his lips brush against her knuckles, there is nothing she can do but surrender to the unfamiliar and overwhelming sensations of his mouth against her skin.

She brings the rose to safety while she's still somewhat capable of doing so, placing it carefully atop the shards of the cup before fully dividing all of her attention to him.

He cradles her hand between his own, reverently kissing every inch of the top of it. She has no point of reference for this but even if she would have had, she wouldn't have had much use for it. Especially when he makes a soft sound of appreciation, telling her that he too finds joy in this kind of touch, she simply lets her eyes flutter closed to fully enjoy whatever it is exactly that he is doing for her.

For this alone she would happily stay with him, for the feeling of his lips running along the back of her hand, peppering light kisses against every part of it. Not to mention when he opens his mouth slightly and starts using his tongue as well, drawing non-existing patterns anywhere he can reach.

She is making noises now too, sounds of a kind she didn't think herself capable of. It doesn't bother her in the slightest that he makes her feel completely out of her depth this way. She happily welcomes the sensation of getting utterly lost; with him touching her like this, she doesn't ever want to be found.

He withdraws and turns her hand around, causing her to make a sound of objection. But before the absence of his touch fully registers, his lips move to the inside of her wrists.

She gasps when he latches onto something, a vein perhaps, and warmth of a kind she never knew before rushes through her.

He is suckling on her skin there, grazing his teeth against it ever so lightly. Although she can't imagine how it can possibly feel so wonderful, it most definitely does.

Opening her eyes slightly, if only to reassure herself that this is truly happening, she finds him bending over her. His eyes are shut tightly as he touches her, almost as if worshiping her, fully dedicating himself to making her feel cherished and whole.

She may barely know him, but especially now it isn't difficult at all to imagine herself being with this man, living with him... _loving_ him.

She isn't quite sure how she can let him know that she likes being touched like this so very much, but to her it's essential that she finds a way. Not just because she only wants him to stop if she's sure that he'll start again at a later point in time, but also because he's still awfully tense. It's as if he isn't entirely convinced of both her willingness to be touched like this and that realness of this situation, as if he might perceive this as merely another one of the fantasies which he may have cherished when the two of them were separated.

Hoping that it'll suffice because she doesn't have any other idea how to go about this, she reaches for his hair with her free hand, twining her fingers into it. Experimentally, she caresses both his silky tresses and his scalp. The sound coming from somewhere deep inside his chest convinces her that her plan is working. It's another one of those sounds that she simply doesn't want to live without from now on.

He rubs nose and lips alike against her skin, using his teeth and tongue too every once in a while. He breathes in deeply, as if bewitched by the smell of her skin and wanting to memorize it just in case he'll never get close to it again. She can imagine that only too well.

She shifts a little until she can bend forward, enveloping him in a slightly uncomfortable embrace. Only then he completely relaxes once more. She smiles against his hair, equally glad that she is as close to him now as she can be.

Stroking his back, she is once more taken aback by how nice he smells. For too long all she has known is the disinfectant scent of her cell and the smell of her own despair. There have been other things since she has been in the much nicer hospital room and dared wandering to the end of the corridor a few times, but nothing is nearly as remarkable as the subtle smokiness which she can inhale every time she gets near him.

This time she doesn't get to enjoy it for long either, because he abruptly moves away from her after a few moments. He guides her arm back in her lap and when she glances down at it in surprise, she can see some moisture as a result of the lovely things he just did. She wouldn't know whether such a thing is normal or not, but it doesn't matter in the slightest. It feels _right_ and that's so much more than she can ask for after having lived for so long without feeling anything pleasant at all.

She raises a confused eyebrow at him, not understanding why he stopped, let alone so suddenly. She may not know anything about these things, but it seemed to her that it was going rather well, whatever it was exactly that he was doing.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I got... carried away."

The hint of redness on his cheeks tells her that he's _blushing_ and heat rushes to her face as well upon realizing that he's influenced by this just as much as she is.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she whispers, shy and emboldened at once.

His blush deepens and so does hers upon openly acknowledging that she enjoys the effect he has on her. He appears to know almost as little on how to go about such things as she does, but this too doesn't matter to her. Unconventional or not, this is definitely the start of something between them... and for as far as she's concerned, it's a very good one.


	9. Part 9

Part 9

Not quite knowing what to do or say now that their faces are equally flushed and they don't seem to be capable to look away from one another, she runs a hand through her hair. It's a reflex which she doesn't understand, but there's a vague notion that the gesture is supposed to bring a resemblance of control.

It turns out to do anything but. She winces in dissatisfaction at the feeling of her far from cleanly washed strands of hair between her fingers.

"What is it?" he asks, somehow immediately aware of her discomfort once more. The color drains quickly from his face, any sign of uneasiness from her apparently enough to shock him like this.

"It's nothing, really."

Indeed, compared to anything else, the state of her hair hardly matters.

"It's not nothing if it bothers you, dear."

There is an invitation in his words, but nothing more than that.

"I haven't really had the chance yet to..."

She gestures helplessly at her hair, feeling silly as she does so. It's not as if she actually cares about her own neatness one way or another. Then again, that's not strictly speaking true any longer, not now that there is someone who might actually appreciate the way she looks.

"I don't even know how I usually wear it," she mutters, frustration coming back to her as quickly as he banished it.

"I do," he mutters, making the almost angry bitterness disappear once more.

"You do, don't you?"

The notion that he knows this about her - and so much more - might have scared her before, but now there's nothing but gratefulness from her side.

"Yes. I... I could show you, if you'd like?"

"I would like that, yes."

He gives her another one of those hopeful smiles when he scoots slightly closer to her, bringing his hands towards her face. He only actually reaches for her hair when she gives him a nod of encouragement.

She wonders if there'll ever come an end to his thoughtfulness, his tenderness, but that thought vanishes for the time being when he purposefully moves his fingers through her hair.

It's still so very knew to her, being touched, especially when the person doing so has no intention of harming her.

He rearranges her locks a little, but not all that much, his touches as careful and reverent as they have been all night.

"In this world, you usually wear your hair like this," he says after a very pleasant minute or so, to her regret already withdrawing his hands. "Would you like to see?"

She nods again. He raises one eyebrow suggestively in response.

"How would you show me?" she asks, sensing that his answer is going to include magic, but having no idea how.

"There's a mirror in my house. It was yours, in the world where we are from. It made its way to this one. I kept it for you and gave it back to you once I had the chance. I'd like to do so again."

She nods once more, aware of the unspoken question. The purple smoke which appears out of nowhere is just as fascinating as the first time she witnessed it, but not nearly as intimidating and simply _strange_.

He hands her the mirror which has appeared in his palm and she gasps in delight when she takes the reflective glass from him.

"It's _gorgeous_," she gushes, admiring the exquisite woodwork surrounding the bright glass with eager eyes and curious fingers.

"It delights me that you still like it."

Again, there isn't the slightest spark of a memory that ignites when she caresses an object which once must have been very dear to her, but it doesn't matter all that much in that moment.

"How did I get it?"

She already knows the answer when she looks back at him in anticipation of his reply.

"It was a gift for you from me, when you were the caretaker of my castle. You... beyond exceeded at that task. You kept doing things I did not expect. Kind things, wonderful things. I didn't think there was anything that I could do for you in order to return the favor of the deliciously cookies you made me or your truly excellent baked potatoes, but I tried."

"It's _beautiful_."

"Only as beautiful as the person whose image it reflects," he murmurs, looking expectantly at her.

Reminded then that there is a reason that he conjured the mirror for her in the first place, she lifts it up in front of her and studies the reflection in the glass.

She doesn't look at her face, the large and practical mirror in the bathroom already having shown her that her skin is too pale, her cheeks gaunt and that there are dark marks beneath her eyes.

It's undeniable that her hair is no longer a riot of untamed locks. It's also indisputable that this too doesn't bring back a single memory... and that her hair is greasier than she feared it would be.

"What's wrong?"

It's uncanny, really, how he is aware of her distress immediately each and every single time. Uncanny, and admittedly comforting.

"It's my hair," she says, knowing from experience by now that she won't get away without revealing the whole truth to him. "It's... it's quite disgusting, I'm afraid."

For the first time, he looks at her as if she has gone actually mad.

"I took a shower this morning and I planned to wash it," she says, the words flowing from her mouth like the water had done from the nuzzle in her attempt to explain herself under his heavy gaze. "But the water was _warm_ and..."

She shrugs with helplessness, wishing that she could explain to him how miraculous it had been just to stand under the warm spray. She lost track of time because of the novelty and the delight of being so warm and comfortable. Consequently, she had rushed out of the shower when she regained full awareness of the situation, afraid that a nurse would drag her out like they always did when her five minutes were up.

"Are you saying that there was no warm water in the basement?"

She frowns, confused by his question - or rather, the obvious answer to it. From what she has learned of him so far, he is far too clever to ask redundant questions.

"Of course there wasn't."

He doesn't ask for explicit permission this time, but it feels only natural when he pulls her into his arms. Still, she wants to get him away from her, because she has just determined that her hair is a mess and really shouldn't be so close to this still almost entirely impeccable man.

But instead of being disgusted by it, for as far as he wasn't already after just touching it, he buries his nose right into her neglected strands of hair. It even seems like he breathes in deeply, as if purposefully taking in her scent, but surely that's only in her own imagination.

"My darling Belle," he whispers into her hair. "It doesn't matter whether your hair is entirely clean or not. You are lovely no matter what. But from now on, you'll never be cold again. You'll have as many showers and baths as you like, I'll make sure of it. I'll get you a pool - ten of them, if that's what you want."

"_Thank you_."

There's nothing more that she can say, not with yet more tears prickling behind her eyelids at his seemingly never ending generosity and loyalty.

"It's the least I can do, really. Just..."

"Just what?"

"Nothing," he says, too quickly, withdrawing from her with obvious reluctance. "I can't ask that of you. I _won't_ ask it."

"Rumple..."

She might have lost her memories and be not remotely as powerful as this man, but he apparently isn't the only one who can draw answers and whole truths from the other with little more than a glance.

"Let me take care of you." It may be an offer, a generous one at that, but it comes out more like a plea than anything else. "You don't have to stay with me, or anywhere near me, if that's not what you want. But _please_ let me know what you want and what you need, and let me arrange it for you."

"I know very little of the world," she says slowly, choosing her words carefully. "And probably less about myself. But I know that you are very, very kind to me. I've become... fond of you and I do believe that you only want the best for me."

It's incredible to witness his entire expression brighting, even when there's still something holding him back. He guards himself and his emotions as if he is terrified to get his hopes crumpled - again.

"I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself on my account. I'm... I'm not _her_, not really. But I would like to keep seeing you. And if you'd really want to help me right now..."

"Anything," he says, in a way that leaves no doubt whatsoever that he literally would do anything for her. It's almost scary perhaps, but she can't help but savor this proof of that she is being protected and _cherished_.

"I'd like you to hold me again."

At first it's like he thinks that hasn't heard her correctly, as if he can't imagine that an embrace is all she would want from him. But then he smiles in that way she is already growing to love so very much, as if she has given him all he ever needed just by wanting to be near him.

Just an hour ago she would have been terrified by the notion of being held, _restricted_, by anyone. By now she has learned that there's nothing more liberating than being held tightly in someone's loving arms.

As awkward as it was at first to find a way into his embrace that's comfortable for both of them, they don't have such trouble any longer. He simply watches her with a tender smile when she moves closer to him again. When her chest is pressed lightly against his and her head is resting snugly on his shoulder once more, he tenderly wraps his arms around her.

She breathes in deeply, sensing that she'll never get used to this, no matter how easy it has become to trust him and relax around him, more than she ever did in the confines of her cell. She couldn't feel freer than she does when he places his face against the crown of her head, surrounding yet more of her.

She suppresses the urge to close her eyes in contentment. She focuses on the little she can see of him from this close distance instead. Finding his neck mere inches from her face, she settles herself slightly closer to him, rubbing her nose playfully against his skin, giving in to another urge which she can't quite explain.

The noise he makes in response is far from playful, but she couldn't be less afraid of his low, surprised growl. But as lovely and _exciting_ as it is to hear it, she is rather distracted by the scent that envelops her now that she gets so close to him.

"You smell nice," she mutters, finally saying out loud what she has been thinking at various points throughout the evening.

He stills immediately and she inwardly curses herself for having spoken without thought, for upsetting him and, worse, not having any idea why.

"I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No, it's all right. It's just that..."

She goes to move away from him, but hesitates when she finds his embrace loose enough for her to break free from, but still very much there.

"What?"

"It's been a few long days," he mutters, his harshness melding into something very much like the self-consciousness she experienced herself just a moment ago.

Considering his words and finally understanding that he's as afraid of her reaction to his current physical state as she just was herself, she can't help but smile against him, shaking her head a little in amused disbelief.

"Belle, I..."

Now he is the one trying to get her away from him, but she won't let him. A part of her is flattered that he goes to _this_ extent to not displease her. But mostly she's shocked that this bothers him so much, whereas he earlier convinced her of his indifference regarding her own physical appearance.

"Like I said, you smell nice."

He ceases his attempt to remove himself from her, much to her delight. He makes a noise of reluctant objection, as if imagining that _that_ will dissuade her, but then gradually relaxes when she remains close to him, breathing him in.

Really, 'nice' is an understatement, although she admittedly can't think of how else she might describe the scent of him. It's appears to be a mixture of different things, many which she has never experienced before.

Despite having barely any memories beyond living in complete isolation, she can intuitively tell that it's quite strange to be with someone like this, basically smelling one another. But he is more than happy to let her do just that, his own face close to her strands even now, and she can tell that he isn't simply indulging her.

Indeed, he is quite clearly delighted to have her so close to him, enjoying her nearness in much the same way as she is relishing in his. All but breathing one another in, she focuses on what is purely _him_. She breathes in deeply once more, a subconscious little noise of appreciation escaping her.

He makes a similar sound and the warmth which rushes to her cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. It's more than being flattered by his apparent lack of disapproval of her current state; it's the discovery that he _likes_ experiencing her like this.

Slowly getting to know him in this particular way as well, she finds that he smells like a combination of things which she can't quite place, but which make her think of wool, books and fire... of _home_.

Before, she couldn't envisage anything remotely like a spot where she could feel comfortable and safe, perhaps even loved. With him however it isn't difficult at all to think of warmth and color, of pleasant furniture and large windows, doors without locks and the means to entertain herself. Not to mention at having people in her life, kind and _real_, and a man who loves her as she might love him.

Her mind is filled with images of a happy life and she is not deterred at all by the awareness that it's another fantasy, and not a memory of the kind she craves. If anything, she's glad for it. At this point, she'd much rather have a good if unknown future than a good and known past... just as long as this man will be part of that future life.


	10. Part 10

Part 10

Comfortable as she is now, she hasn't forgotten about the casual remark he made just a few minutes ago. The way her hair apparently used to be styled seems almost trivial now that he has already arranged it, but she enjoys this freedom to talk and ask questions far too much to stop.

"You said 'in this world'. Was it different, where we were before? My hair, I mean?"

Much as the mere notion of other worlds would have confused and possibly terrified her before, their existence - although not actually proven so far - is quickly becoming as normal to her as all the other things he is talking about.

"It was," he says after a few seconds, as if lost to this world as he studies her as much as she scrutinizes him. "I could show you, if you'd like?"

He sounds as if he doesn't expect her to agree to it, as if he can't imagine her wanting him to touch her yet more to recreate the way she wore her hair, once upon a time.

She nods eagerly though, by now so fond of this man's touches that there is no way that she's going to let such a chance go by. Her own enthusiasm might have shocked her before as well, would have sent heat rushing to her cheeks at the very least, but by now there is nothing but unconcealed anticipation and eagerness at his proposal.

There is tenderness, too, in the way he looks at her while awaiting her reaction, both so timid and very, very hopeful.

"There are different ways you used to wear your hair," he says, slightly hesitant as if _still _not certain that she really wants to hear this, at least from him. "But at night, it was always the same."

"Show me," she breathes, hardly aware that she's all but commanding the man she was so very afraid of just a few hours ago - and that he obeys her as if there's nothing else he wants from life.

"I'm going to need something else to do that," he says, looking meaningfully at the mirror she's still holding.

She nods, realizing that his remark is more of a question. She finds more satisfaction than she supposes she ought to in the fact that he's informing her of his intend to use magic in advance, as if to warn her - or to ask her permission.

There's another cloud of purple smoke in the air. Although she's somewhat prepared for it this time, if only because she has seen such an incredible sight once before, watching an item appear out of thin air in the palm of his hand is still just as magical as it was the first time. It's something she supposes she'll never get used to, but she doesn't take the time to ask herself - or him - whether the woman she's supposed to be ever grew used to the fact that he has such powers.

When the purple mist has cleared again, he reveals a brush to her. It's from the same set as the mirror which she is holding herself, the color and decorations of the wood of both items matching perfectly.

She reaches for the wooden brush in his hand, only aware that she's doing so when their fingers brush. There's warmth in the accidental touch, a connection between two human beings. It's not of the kind she may have hoped for, the type which might spark something to help her remember, but the physical reminder that she isn't alone anymore is at least as meaningful.

Taking the brush from him, she holds it tentatively and studies it from all sides, more to admire the gorgeous item than to find anything to remind her of her past.

If he hopes to bring back at least some of her memories by providing her with a brush that she once must have used very much, there is no indication of this on his face.

This pleases her, despite the craving to have her memories back, to remember all the beautiful things he is telling about instead of only hearing about them. She has grown tired of trying to manage something which she can't achieve. Being told isn't as good as remembering the experiences, but just sitting here and enjoying his attention is wonderful in its own right.

She hands the brush back to him, cherishing the brief moment in which their fingers touch again, the solidness of him proving that he is so much more than just another hallucination of friendship, of _anything_, the ones which were both a curse and a blessing when she was still locked up.

"Turn around?" he says, these two words too more a question than a request.

The shiver of delight that goes through her at the prospect of having her hair brushed by him is probably as noticeable to him as it is to her, but she hesitates. By now he is the only person who she trusts not to do anything harmful to her while her back is turned towards him and she thus can't see him. She has also reached the point where she isn't terrified any longer that he'll then disappear like the imaginary escapes and companions behind her closed eyelids were wont to do in the basement.

The reason that she doesn't want to look away from him is simply because she so very much enjoys letting her gaze wander over him. She just can't get enough of his eyes, from the warm color of them to the way they visibly soften whenever they look at her.

"This might help," he says, gesturing at the mirror, his expression so very tender and understanding.

It's only more difficult to turn away from him then, because he manages to know how she feels without her needing to explain it. It's a novelty to have someone who is willing to listen to her in the first place, but to give her what she wants and _needs_ without requiring any words whatsoever is a miracle of sorts indeed.

But then he looks meaningfully at the reflective glass in her hands and she beams in understanding. All her reluctance gone, she turns around on the chair, raising the mirror as soon as she is comfortable. Adjusting it until she has found the right angle, her smile only widens when she can still see him in the mirror, even though her back is facing him now.

"I need to..."

He reaches for her hair but doesn't touch it, all hesitant again, shy almost. It's confusing in a lovely way because _he_ ought to be the one to guide the two of them now that her memories are gone. _She _is the one who is unaccustomed to any touch, let alone ones as special as these... unless he has been as lonely as she has been all these years; unless they have touched as little as he implied even when they were together.

She isn't going to consider it now, the lingering pain of her own loneliness barely bearable even without the knowledge that he may have suffered a somewhat similar fate.

"It's all right," she says, smiling at him. He returns her smile when their gazes briefly lock in the glass in front of her.

No longer painfully aware of her not entirely clean hair, she gathers all the locks she can reach and pushes them over her shoulder, towards him. She has the presence of mind to adjust the mirror again right after she has done so, being just in time to witness his look of complete awe when he is presented with her long curls.

"I'm going to..."

His gaze briefly flickers back to hers as he speaks, looking for confirmation once more. She marvels at his ability to express himself to her without having to use much words. It's probably a good thing that they barely need any words like this, for he seems to be less and less capable of finding them.

It's miraculous, really, how they can communicate just with a glance here and a gesture there, perfectly understanding one another despite the circumstances which are so much against them.

She nods, far from oblivious to the way his gaze is all but glued to the locks falling down her back as she does so. He isn't the only one who is enchanted though when he takes a few curls in his hand and begins to brush them with utter care.

Any worries and grieves she still carries with her at that point are forgotten, for the time being at least, when he begins to move the brush through her hair in ever so tentative and tender strokes.

She'd love to close her eyes, to simply focus on enjoying the delightful sensations he causes, but she forces her eyelids not to close themselves. She wants to experience as much of this as she can. Tightening her hold on the mirror, she keeps her gaze on him.

He brushes her hair methodically, going from the left to the right, not once only slightly hurting her despite the tangles in her hair. In spite of his systematic approach, there's something in every stroke which completely belies his efficiency, a slight tremble in his gestures.

She tilts her head towards him and remains like that even when he is done. His hands are strong and certain and yet so very gentle, and she is convinced that she'll never get enough of this, no matter if he were to do this for the rest of their lifetimes.

She wants this, forever, but any other time she longed for something - the ones she can remember, at least - that never happened. This time she isn't so sure of that however and her smile only broadens at the knowledge that this isn't going to end to night... that the relationship between them is in all likelihood going to become only better and more enjoyable in the future.

Just watching him in the mirror is a delight. He is yet more relaxed than before, contentment and joy written on his features. Probably unaware that she's watching his expression so closely, even the way he basically caresses her hair is not as wonderful as seeing him like this, completely unguarded.

"You've often done this before, haven't you?" she asks quietly.

She watches him particularly closely when his eyes flutter shut even as he continues the brushing, further confirming to her that the task is both a very familiar and particularly enjoyable one to him. She'd almost think that the work is boring him, but she understands him well enough by now to understand that this easily made assumption couldn't differ more from the truth.

Still, his quiet but certainly audible sounds of appreciation is a most pleasant confirmation of her suspicion either way.

"I have," he murmurs, his voice low and soft and yet more intriguing, _addicting_, than before. "I remember every single time."

The latter is added very quietly, as if in afterthought. It's a relief and yet so very frustrating to hear him talk of their past; their shared history is so beautiful yet so far away that it almost might as well not have happened to her at all.

This isn't the moment to dwell on it though. The time of their initial happiness might be behind them, but so are the days of emptiness and despair.

"I started doing this a few months after you came to work for me." Although she has no real reason to do so, she senses that it's unusual for him to talk like this, to say more than what is strictly speaking necessary. "You asked me to do it. I was grateful for that, because I longed to touch your hair like this but would never have dared to ask. I acted as if I was doing _you_ a favor, that I didn't really want to touch you like this. I suppose that you must have known just how glad I was that you asked me. I'm certain you caught me... well, staring whenever you brushed your hair in my company."

"Did you brush my hair in this world as well?"

Given the way he is expertly treating her hair now, as if hardly a day has passed since he has done so for the last time, she supposes that he would have brushed her hair like this very often. Yet he hesitates once more before replying, immediately reminding her of how he told her that he was afraid to use his favorite terms of endearment with her in fear of driving her away again.

Sensing the answer before it comes, she turns around again, not caring that her tresses fall from his suddenly limp fingers. She places her hand on his knee, patting it a few times for a lack of a better idea of how to reassure him once more.

"Just a few times," he says at length, looking at her but bowing his head slightly, his hair shielding most of his expression from her view. "In the beginning. When I still hoped that we could continue where we left off in our own world."

He doesn't need to tell her more to give her additional insight into his fears and his worries. She wishes that she could reassure him, that she could say to him just how very much she appreciates this particular kind of attention from him. The problem is that she can't talk for the woman who she can't remember.

"_I_ would like it if you did this every day."

The way he lifts his head abruptly, strands of graying hair falling aside to reveal a pair of widening honey-brown eyes, leaves no doubt that he knows exactly that she distinguishes herself from the woman he remembers - and that there is a part of him that is relieved by it.

"Anything you want," he mutters under his breath, sounding both amused and bewildered.

"What?" she asks, his tone confusing her much more than the actual words.

"I offer you anything I can give you. You know to at least some extent how much that is. Yet, all you've asked of me so far... is to brush your hair."

She shrugs, as if the answer is obvious.

"I very much enjoy it when you do that. It makes me feel..."

She frowns, trying to find the words to describe just what he causes within her when he brushes her hair, making her feel safe and yet so very excited at the same time.

"Like what?"

"Alive," she breathes in response to his inquiry, nodding to herself as she fully realizes just how much that is true, how stark the contrast is between his loving touches and the bleakness of her previous existence.

"Sweetheart..."

She hushes him, not wanting to see any more pain and regret in his gaze.

"It's all right, Rumple. Really."

"No, not at all. How can it be? After what Regina did to you... after what _I_ did to you..."

She hushes him again, more insistingly this time.

"I may not be able to remember it, but I know that what happened in the past isn't all right. But that has changed. Now, it _is _right."

He nods weakly, much to her relief. The grief she experiences at seeing him filled with sorrow is yet another indicator that everything he has told her is true, that he is really so much more than a man who she seemingly barely knows.

"Continue?" she urges him gently, gesturing at the brush he is still holding, his knuckles white.

"Of course," he replies, doing just that.


	11. Part 11

Part 11

Instead of taking the brush to move it through her tresses again, he lets go of the wooden item and reaches for her hair with his hands instead. She doesn't know what he's doing, but that doesn't prevent her from thoroughly enjoying his touch once more as he tenderly runs his fingers through her curls.

She makes a soft noise of appreciation when he begins to rearrange her curls again, this time more so than he did before. He divides her hair into three thick tresses, her eyes fluttering closed when she begins to understand what he is doing.

"If we are going to be together, I want you to tell me whenever you want to do anything like this," she says quietly, tilting her head back to give him more access. "I want us to share everything. It's... it goes both ways, Rumple. I don't think we can have what we want if we keep things from one another and don't tell each other everything, even if those are things that we are afraid of, or ashamed."

His hands falter and he goes very still behind her. She can still see him in her mirror, but his face has become a mask. For a moment, she wishes that she could _see_ him, right past his unreadable expression. Similarly, she so very much wants to remember something, _anything,_ from their past. All she has now is based on intuition and a lingering sense of inequality regarding the relationship he described.

But then there's movement behind her and he leans his head against her neck, her hair between them. They don't act like a shield of sorts whenever, not at all, not when he rests his hands lightly on her waist and breathes in deeply, all but whimpering when he rubs his nose against her neck.

"Yes," he mutters against her skin, the words heavy with despair even now. "I... I'd _live _for that, Belle. I wouldn't have dared imagine that you would want that as well, and..."

He's doubting himself again, questioning just about everything about their relationship, and for now she just can't bear it.

"You still got work to do," she interrupts him, her tone both playful and stern, having no idea whatsoever where she finds the courage to talk to him like this in an attempt to distract him from his pessimistic thoughts.

"Of course," he mutters, relieved and amused, delighting her by doing exactly what she asked. It may be only temporarily, but he lets go of his anxiety nonetheless.

He continues his task, combing his fingers through her hair until he has neatly separated all of it into three tresses. Lovely as that is, he soon shows that it can get even better. When he begins to braid her hair, she sighs deeply in enjoyment.

He talks to her while he is focused on the task, his words quiet as he tells her how much he loves doing this, that he has always liked her hair so very much, and that he is honored that she wants him to touch her like this.

She smiles, reaching behind her to rest her hand on his knee, knowing by now that such a gesture can inform him just how much she appreciates his words and his efforts.

Ever since she joined him, she has thought various time that she has never been more at ease, the comfort she has experienced thanks to this man such a sharp contrast to the conditions she lived in for as long as she can remember. But now she learns that she wasn't entirely right to think so, that she can feel so much better than she already did.

With his coat still around her and his hands in her hair, his words only adding to the warmth inside her, she lets down barriers of which she didn't know that she was still maintaining them. She gradually leans back against him, smiling a little as he gasps with delight and immediately rearranges his position to accommodate her increased nearness.

Her eyes close on their own accord and there is no reason whatsoever to open them again, to do anything but focus fully on the pleasantness and safety of the moment. She may have thought before that she was protected and cherished, but it turns out that things can get even better than that.

For now – no, from now on - she _belongs_. Whether she can remember or not, this man is hers as much as she is his. Out of all the things she longed for when she was still locked up, out of all the fantasies she never expected to come true anyway, this is far better than anything she could have imagined when she was still locked away in the cell in the basement.

He is humming under his breath, so softly that she wonders whether he's aware that he's doing it. She smiles at the implicit confirmation that he is as comfortable as she is, that he enjoys this as much as she does.

He interrupts the sound to mutter a few quiet words to alert her that he is going to tilt her head a little. She nods to indicate that she understands, careful not to pull the braid out of his hands when he moves.

Much as she has grown distrustful of people who touch her, who force her to undergo things she doesn't want, she supposes that she probably wouldn't have been caught off guard by his increased touch even if he wouldn't have warned her in advance.

The braid is reaching her shoulders now and she can see his progress from the corners of her eyes. She is almost tempted to pull her hair free after all, if only so he might start over again. That way she could have more of this quiet perfection, of reverent hands touching her so very lovingly.

She doesn't, though. Not because she is afraid that he wouldn't want to braid her hair again, but because she looks even more forward to just being in his arms, without having him paying most of his attention to her hair.

As he completes the task, she focuses on his hands. How she marvels at them, despite mostly feeling instead of seeing them now. His fingers are long and elegant, strong and gentle alike. But there's a deftness to them she didn't notice before, a smoothness in the way he works. He indeed must have done this many, many times before. She can only hope that there'll be at least just as many to follow.

He has reached the end of her curls just a moment later, holding the edge of the braid in front of her as if to offer it for inspection.

"It's lovely," she says, properly taking in the neat braid for the first time. It's difficult to believe that this is the same hair that used to hang limply down her face and back, tangled and oily, almost her only protection in the night - that those tamed and relatively clean curls are actually hers. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome," he says, his tone leaving no doubt whatsoever that he indeed wouldn't mind at all to braid her hair over and over again, that he would only enjoy it. It strengthens her determination to ask him to do this for her every night to come. "How do you want me to tie it?"

"I suppose you have an idea about that as well," she replies, smiling again because she is a lot more certain than her playful words might imply – and she is equally sure that he is well aware of that. That doesn't mean that she isn't delighted that he asks her opinion, despite knowing her preferences - or at least those of her old self - better than she herself does now.

"I do, yes. There's a ribbon, still lying in your bedroom in our house. I could retrieve it for you, if you'd like?"

"I'd love that," she replies, already knowing that he isn't talking about physically returning to his – _their – _house to take the ribbon. She thus isn't surprised in the slightest, yet still ever so much amazed, when there's another cloud of purple mist and he is holding a lovely blue ribbon when it clears.

"Do you like it?"

He already knows that answer too, she has no doubt about that. Or at least, he knows the answer that the woman who she is supposed to be would give - the woman who she in a way still is, but who she can't remember being. And yet, he asks _her_.

She beams at him in response, nodding enthusiastically. At least her fondness of this particular ribbon doesn't seem to have changed now that her memories are gone.

"Let me?"

She almost giggles with giddiness at the sight of him, gentle and ever so careful, ensuring himself of her complete agreement and willingness for the smallest of things, even now.

"Of course," she says, just in case her smile isn't enough of an answer to him.

He smiles back in response, maybe just a bit broader than the previous times. He is transformed in that sense, looking so much unlike the forlorn and lost man who she began talking to a few hours ago. Realizing that she wants him to smile like this so much more often, she tells herself that she'll make sure to try to give him plenty of reason to look so happy.

Then his hands are in her hair again and she sighs with contentment at the feeling of it, at being taken care of like this. The ribbon is deftly tied into her hair soon enough, keeping the end of the braid together and making sure that the curls won't escape.

When he is done, he tenderly places the braid between them, down her back. He lets go off her then. Although it disappoints her, since she hoped he would continue to be so pleasantly close to him, she doesn't have to go without his touch for long.

"Does this suffice?"

Only when his thumb brushes against her right hand, she realizes that she's still holding the mirror which he conjured earlier, the one which she forsook when she could directly see his progress from the corners of her eyes. Delighted at the prospect of seeing the full result of his work, she eagerly lifts the mirror again and takes a good look at the image that greets her.

She may have been afraid to look at her reflection before, to see the emptiness and despair in her own eyes, or even the sad state of her appearance, but that isn't the case any longer.

She gasps with delight as she admires his work. Her hair is braided neatly along the shape of her head, neither too tightly or too loosely. It's probably just her imagination, but her face already seems less gaunt, her eyes less sunken and her skin less pale because of the care he bestowed upon her.

No matter how joyed she is that she doesn't look like she is half dead any longer, her gaze is quickly drawn to the man behind her. It's not the first time that the mirror gives her an vantage view of him, allowing her to study him while he is oblivious to her scrutiny, but her breath is still quite literally taken away by the reflection of the glass.

He's looking at her as if there's nothing else in the world... nothing more beautiful than her. Even if they were to spend the rest of their lives together, she is convinced that she'll never get enough of the admiration and love in his expression. Especially not now that it's combined with the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder as he rubs her there ever so lightly.

She can tell that he would be more than happy to remain like this for the time being, a conclusion which is as incredible as the fact that she is learning to understand him like this. But as much as she enjoys his nearness, she has thought of something much better to do.

Lowering the mirror, she moves to give it back to him, so he can put it wherever exactly he conjured it from, along with the brush which he's still holding.

"Keep it," he murmurs, closing her hand around the handle of the mirror when she intends to return it, handing her the brush as well. "They're yours."

She hasn't owned anything for as long as she can remember, especially not anything so beautiful and meaningful. But she only glances at both items quickly when she delicately places them on the table at her side, next to the shards of his cup and the rose he gave her earlier. She'll most certainly admire these items to a large extent later on, but for now she'd much rather focus on the man who gave them to her.

She turns around to face him again, finding his for once idle hands on his knees. She covers them with her own, squeezing them in gratitude and encouragement, delighted when that previously so very rare smile returns quite easily to his lips.

"Thank you," she says, hoping that he'll know that she isn't only referring to the lovely braid. "I'd never be able to do that on my own."

"Feel free to ask for my... assistance whenever you want," he mutters. He meets her gaze, but the slight reddening of his cheeks belies his confidence.

Seeing him like this does nothing to reduce her giddiness. She didn't even know that she could feel like this, but she definitely feels like behaving very silly and enthusiastically indeed upon finding him so very eager to help her, to support her in whatever way he can. And to see him so awkwardly eager while he's at it, like she isn't the only one who wants all of this so much but doesn't really have a clue how to go about it...

"I shall keep that in mind." She most definitely will, but it doesn't feel like enough of an answer, not in this case. She might have no idea about her life, about what each new day might bring, but she's slowly beginning to see that she can influence it, that she can make an actual impact on her own fate now. "I would like my hair to be done like this tomorrow night as well."

It's truly mesmerizing how she has learned to talk like this. It's just as miraculous as having found someone who doesn't only _like _her to make such requests, but who also aims to fulfill them.

"Just ask, and I'll be there," he breathes.

She understands perfectly now why he sounds like there's nothing he'd rather have happening, for she has exactly the same feeling.

"Thank you," she says, repeating her words from just a minute ago. She can't thank him enough for everything that he is doing for her, but that doesn't mean that she won't try.


	12. Part 12

Part 12

Beyond moved by his promise of affection and dedication, she takes one of her hands from his and reaches for his face. There's a developing familiarity in this gesture, and a variety of others, which she savors almost as much as the man himself.

By now no longer reluctant to do so or even too overwhelmed to fully experience it, she caresses his cheek with her fingertips, exploring the strong line of his jaw and the stubble that covers it.

Just like before, he leans into her hand, his need for being touched like this clearly not diminishing at all. He lets out a quiet gasp as his eyes meet hers, light as melting honey. She brings her other hand to his face as well, cradling his cheeks.

She touches him like that for a wonderfully long while, until it doesn't seem quite enough any longer. Recalling how she brought her lips to his forehead just an hour or so ago - it might as well have been a lifetime - she gradually withdraws her hands, placing them on his shoulders instead.

His eyes open only a few seconds later, the small smile never leaving his lips. He looks as if he is content, having finally found some of the peace he has given her as well. It gives her a sense of pride and achievement she never knew before.

Wanting to recreate the sensations of their not quite kiss of earlier that evening, she shifts a little, moving closer to him until her face is only a yard away from his.

"Belle?" he asks questioningly, his voice as uncertain as it is eager, and just a little hoarse, making her tremble in a way she didn't know could be pleasant.

"Rumple," she murmurs, only aware when he groans ever so quietly that her voice must have taken on the same husky quality as his.

She leans in to him then, taking her time. It's torment of a lovely kind, especially when she closes the distance between them at last, his eyes widening.

Never ceasing to caress his cheek with her hand, she purposefully presses her lips against his other cheek. Her other hand finds its way back to his nape on its own accord, her upper body pressed slightly against this side. He inhales noisily at the contact, and so does she.

She sighs his name against his skin, pressing her lips against it once more as well, just so she can touch a slightly different part of him like this. His skin is soft but it is covered by a stubble, slightly rough against her lips. She can't get enough of it.

Before long, she is pressing kisses against his jaw and cheeks alike, breathing in the scent of him which she has already grown to love so much. His arm comes around her waist, its weight on her hip ever so light. She can hardly feel it through the thick material of his coat which is still covering her. Wanting to feel more of him, she wiggles a little until he takes a firmer hold on her.

It's almost difficult to imagine now that there was a time, one that ended only very shortly ago, that such a touch would have scared and revolted her... that _he_ would have done so. But now she doesn't want to spend another day without it.

"_Belle_..."

His gasp is a sound of pure delight and joy, raw and vulnerable, causing her to smile against his skin before whispering his name once more as well.

All those years locked in isolation, she used to long for so many things and fantasized about a great many more. She wondered at life outside the cell, at the world she could see a tiny part of through the narrow window just below the ceiling of her cell. She could only see the sky that way, but that was already so much compared to the emptiness of her room and life alike.

She had thought of what her life might be like if she were to actually have one, mentally living out dozens of them from start to finish. In her mind, she had been everything she wanted to be, had felt everything she wanted to feel - or so she thought. She might have believed that she has mentally experienced everything that's possible in the real world, but now she's finding out just how very wrong she has been about that.

For never, not once in all those years, she has been able to think of _this_, of being held by a man like she is being embraced right now, of the sheer comfort and delight of it. Not once did she think there could be something like the strange sensations which he evokes deep inside of her, whether he's telling her of their life together, holding her, or simply smiling at her.

Despite her enthusiasm, she doesn't quite venture near his mouth. The notion of _kissing _him isn't an unpleasant one any longer, but it doesn't feel quite right, either. But another idea presents itself and she is perfectly happy to pursue that one instead.

She can't tell whether it's a subconscious gesture or not, but the way he tilts his head back is undeniable. She isn't certain either whether he intended for her to do what springs to her mind when he bares his throat to her like this, but she has reached a point where she is no longer hesitant just to try.

He _grunts_ when she runs her tongue along his throat, all the way from the skin just above his tie to his chin. It looks like he wasn't expecting this in the slightest after all, which makes her only more eager to repeat the action.

Here too his skin is deliciously rough. Its gets even better when she expands her territory and finds something throbbing rapidly beneath her lips. Presuming that she must have found a vein, she recalls vividly just how good it felt when he touched her like this. Like he did before, she quite literally latches onto it, nibbling and suckling and, giving into a seemingly strange urge, biting carefully as well.

He is making all sorts of noises, sounds that do the most unfamiliar things within her, and make her react in kind. His head supported by her left hand while her right is roaming along his side, he tips his head back for as far as the wall behind him lets him.

She doesn't need any memories in order to know what it means that this man, with all his usual power and control, is more than happy to let her touch him like this. He has literally bared his throat to her, letting her run her teeth over one of the most vulnerable parts of his body.

She recognizes the sounds he is making as ones of pleasure just as easily. His both pleading and loving tone and pitch is surprisingly simple to interpret, even for her.

Instead of pondering her ability to be able to understand him like this, even with her memories missing, she takes a more practical approach, considering the fabric that's currently covering the lower half of his throat.

He isn't wearing his coat any longer, but beneath the tie and the jacket which are still covering him, she spots at least one more layer of fabric. His rapid breath and tightened hold on her waist prevents her from wondering just yet how she might get those layers of material at least partly out of the way, revealing more of his so very lovely skin to her eyes and mouth.

It's probably for the better. Despite the awareness that both of them want this, whatever those seemingly unusual sort of kisses and touches are anyway, she isn't certain in the slightest whether it's a good idea to do so right now, so very soon after their reunion of sorts, and in the middle of a hallway of the hospital.

She draws back abruptly as she recalls just where exactly they are, and that they are far from alone in the building, or even this part of it.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his eyes opening immediately. He seems confused for a moment, before his expressions becomes one of worry and almost tangible guilt. "I'm sorry. This is too much, for now at least. I shouldn't have encouraged you to..."

"It's all right, truly," she is quick to reassure him, smiling a little despite her realization and his obvious worry. "I'm glad that you are concerned, but I didn't stop because I didn't like what we were doing."

She is sure that she doesn't need to add that she _liked_ what they were doing, liked it so very much, with all the heat rushing to her cheeks.

"What is it then, sweetheart?"

She is surprised by how alert and focused he is, such a contrast to how lost he was just a few seconds ago. It worries her to see his dreamy and unmistakably happy expression having disappeared so quickly.

"We're sitting right here and... anyone could see us."

He is clearly relieved by her reply, a small smile finding its way back to his face. She's pleased that he is easily persuaded, this time at least, that she has no objections whatsoever anymore to touching him.

"We're quite alone here, dear. I cast a spell to prevent anyone from entering this hallway. Whenever someone wants to come anywhere near here, they realize they have quite pressing matters to attend to elsewhere in the building."

She too smiles at that, taking delight in the wickedness of his voice. But then she sobers, understanding what this might mean for other patients.

"You are the only one who is currently treated here," he says, again managing to reply to a question she hasn't asked yet. At this point, it doesn't bewilder her any longer. "No patient is being neglected here because I don't trust anyone to leave us alone for once."

"When did you cast the spell?" she asks, knowing that she hasn't noticed him doing so.

"Quite a while ago, soon after you joined me here and you miraculously didn't seem like you were trying to get away from me as quickly as anyone else would have done."

"I didn't see you doing so," she replies, more intrigued than anything else.

"Not every kind of magic requires a purple haze. It is quite theatrical, I admit. A lot of ways are more... subtle. I should have told you, right when I did it, but..."

He shakes his head a little, giving her a glimpse of sadness before his hair falls around his face like a curtain once more. Instinctively, she reaches out to wipe his hair from his face, to prevent him from withdrawing from her again.

"You were afraid that I would be upset if I would know that you were using magic. Because you used that spell before you told me about it, before you explained magic to me."

"Exactly."

"It's all right, Rumple. It really is. I understand why you used the spell without telling me. I'm just glad that you cast it."

"You are?"

He looks up abruptly, confusion replacing his worried sorrow. It's not much of an improvement.

"Yes. I wouldn't want people to see us like this."

"Of course," he says curtly, lowering his head again and scooting as far away from her as his leg allows. "You don't want to be seen with me."

"It's not _that_!" she gasps out, horrified. "How can you think that?"

He gives her a helpless shrug. His eyes are as sad as they are forgiving.

"You don't have to explain it to me. You don't have to defend yourself. There's no one who understands better than I do that you don't want people to know of our... continued association."

"You _silly_ man," she mutters, all but launching herself at him. "I _want_ to be with you, even if that only means finding out _how_ to be with you for now."

She clamps her arms around his chest, pulling herself as tightly against him as she can. Her chest is to his back, her bare knees ending up on the warm plastic of the part of the seat which he just vacated. Only when she buries her face in his neck, pressing stubborn and almost possessive kisses there, she is somewhat satisfied that he isn't going to get away from her out of a misplaced sense of shame after all.

"I don't want to be watched. It reminds me of how _she_ used to come and stare at me. I don't want to be reminded of that." She breathes in deeply out of necessity, her outburst leaving her quite breathless. It's hardly a punishment, his mesmerizing scent filling her along with oxygen each time she sharply inhales. "Besides, this is about us, _for _us, and no one else. This is _private_. I don't want anyone else to see that."

She looks at him expectantly, quite certain that it isn't just in her imagination that his smile truly does get broader every time she reassures him.

"I couldn't agree more," he says, almost managing to sound entirely like he didn't doubt this so very much just a moment ago. "I promise that there'll be no one here who you don't want to for as long as you'll stay here. When you leave the hospital... I'll make any arrangements necessary to ensure you comfort."

He leans back against her, finally relaxing now that he is yet more assured of her comfort, both in the short and long run. Before, she would have been very curious, anxious more likely, about the 'arrangements' he is referring to. But now, she barely considers them.

It's not just that she has grown to implicitly trust him to support her, to help her decide about things she barely knows about; she simply doesn't want to think of anything but the joys of the here and now for as long as this most unexpected of closeness and affection lasts.

"I'm sorry for doubting you, Belle. I... I'm a weak man. I tend to think the worst. Of others, and of myself. I usually presume the worst, especially with regards to what... _who_ I love most."

"I think that someone should prove you differently. About yourself. And about others."

She places a single finger beneath his chin, making sure that he can't lower his head or look away from her, that there can be no doubt whatsoever that she's referring to herself.

"I love you, Belle," he breathes, still so very disbelieving, but not nearly quite as broken and desperate as before.

"I know. I think I can love you too. Again, I mean."

"Oh, sweetheart..."

Tears gather in his eyes again and her vision becomes blurry as well, but that just won't do, not this time.

"No more crying, Rumple," she says decisively, not wanting either or both of them to break down again. Just for now, she wants to focus on nothing but the happiness which is currently blossoming between them. "We've had enough tears for one night."

"You're perfectly right, my dear," he says, giving her a watery smile. "As you always are."

"And don't you forget it."

She still doesn't know where this boldness, this _banter_, is coming from, whether it's a part of the woman who she is supposed to be that's shining through. It doesn't matter all that much when his smile broadens again.

"Never."

This time, it only takes a questioning glance from him and a brief, delighted nod from her to communicate their need to be as close to one another as they can be.

As he gathers her in his arms and they both sigh in contentedness, it's almost as if she has never known anything but his loving and protective embrace.


	13. Part 13

Part 13

Her hands are on his chest and her head is on his shoulder. She snuggles against him, increasingly savoring his nearness instead of getting used to it.

That's why it takes her quite some time to notice that their current embrace gives her an accidental view on the items which are still lying on the small table next to the seats they are sitting on. She focuses on the shards of the cup which are on the bottom of the pile which has basically grown there.

It seems strange now, that those little pieces of china filled her with such dread before. Still, she has far from forgotten that they are part of the cup which he forced her to look at, to _focus _on, whatever that means. Later, she felt awfully guilty for losing control over herself and smashing the cup in the hope that he would finally leave her alone.

She can't help but smile a little as she looks at those bits of porcelain now. If it weren't for those shards, she wouldn't be sitting here now with him.

"Can you use magic to repair the cup?"

She only realizes that she has spoken the question out loud when he makes a sound of confirmation.

"Just a simple spell would do the trick."

"Then why don't you?"

She breaks away from him a little, looking at him in confusion. He was devastated when she broke the cup, understandably so. After all, she herself ended up being feeling awful because of that small, fragile thing, and she is the one who has no memories of that cup whatsoever.

"For me, it's not about the cup itself. It's about what it represents."

"What does it represent?"

"Our love."

He speaks with utmost certainty, but she isn't following him.

"What do you mean?"

It's not that she doesn't believe that the cup can symbolize their relationship; it's just that she has difficulty picturing how the seemingly mundane object can be so strongly related to their feelings for one another.

"Maybe I put it a bit strongly," he replies, giving her an apologetic shrug, "but that's the way I see it."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Much as she'd like to hear about the cup itself, she's also very eager to learn more of their past in general.

"If you want to, yes," he says, regarding her closely. He doesn't look as conflicted as she expected him to be; it's truly as if his only requirement for telling her is that she requests him to do so.

"I'd like to hear about the cup. I know you said something about it when you visited me a few days ago, but..."

"It wasn't quite the right moment," he says, sighing. "I can't apologize enough for..."

"It's all right, really," she says, interrupting him quickly. "Both of us were wrong, and both of us were upset. We can't blame ourselves for that, especially not now that things are turning out fine after all."

"Indeed," he mutters, sounding relieved. "Please allow me to start over, and tell you properly this time. From the very beginning."

"I'm all ears."

She settles herself, making herself comfortable at his side, her head still on his shoulder.

"I must admit that I can't remember how the cup ended up in my possession," he says, looking past her at the shards. "But it was the one that you picked out to serve me my tea in during your first day at work in my castle."

It's funny, in a way which isn't humoring at all, how the notion of working for him in his _castle_, being his caretaker, confused and terrified her so very much just a few days ago. It's not as if she has any actual evidence now that what he says is true, but it has become an accepted fact to her anyway. For when he looks at her like this, solemn and loving and hopeful, the words he is telling her are all the proof she needs.

"I... I didn't know you yet like I would get to know you. I didn't know you at all. When I... bargained for you, I was impressed by your strength, your independency. But I didn't expect that you would endure in the Dark Castle, working as my servant for all intends and purposes."

He stares off into the distance for a moment, the past so very far and yet only a memory away.

"I wasn't kind. To either of us. I longed for companionship, just someone to talk to... someone who might speak back. At the same time, I knew exactly who I was... _what _I was. What I _am_. Driving anyone away, driving _you_ away... it's in my nature, Belle. Or rather, what's left of it."

She wants to disagree, to point out that what he's doing now is anything but driving her away, but she remains quiet for now. She'd prefer hearing the whole story before daring to speculate on the character of this unusual man.

"When you were serving my tea that very first time, I made a cruel joke. It was just an attempt to startle you... to see what you would do. I expected you to... well, to cry. But you didn't. You only dropped the teacup. If it weren't for that, I might have thought you hadn't heard me at all. When you picked up the cup, you discovered that it was chipped. You apologized, arguing that you could barely see the damage. You were more worried about the cup itself than my reaction. It was... intriguing."

He has already told her this, in so many words. In fact, this is actually the third time that he is telling her. But she's glad that he does, for he tells her new things each time, allowing her to gradually expand her knowledge and understanding of their past.

"I began using the cup, at first more out of habit than anything else. And when you ended up joining me for tea every day, it became some sort of joke between us."

He smiles a little, clearly having very good memories of the times they had tea together. Of course, she wishes that she were able to remember as well. But whereas hearing about it like this isn't quite the same thing, it suffices for now, his smile telling her most of what she wants to know.

"But when you eventually kissed me, when I thought you had betrayed me... I was... upset."

She squeezes his knee in encouragement, very much aware how difficult it is for him to think back on this, not to mention to narrate the events which he regrets so very much.

"I was upset and angry and... hurt when I thought that you had purposefully made me believe that you could love me, that none of it had been genuine. I smashed things. Quite a lot of things. Including the teaset on the table. I wanted to destroy every last piece of it, but when I took our cup and saw the chip... I just couldn't do it."

Sensing that there's still something inside of him which can't quite believe that she wanted - _wants_ - nothing rather than being with him, she squeezes him more tightly. There's a brief wince of discomfort on his face, but she doesn't let go, not until he covers his hand with her own and smiles uncertainly at her, indicating that he understands why she does this.

"Since the day I threw you out, I readied the remaining items of the teaset each afternoon, hoping that you would come back and that we could have tea like we used to. But you didn't come back and I didn't use the cup again. When Regina came to me to tell me that you had died, I believed that the cup was the only thing I had left of you."

This time, her touch is as gentle as it can be when she caresses his knee, by now knowing that her comfort makes this easier for him. Then again, she has the feeling that it will never get any less difficult for him to think of the long time in which he had believed her to be dead because of Regina's lie.

"The cup become one of my most cherished possessions. I placed it in the main hall of my castle, on the largest pedestal. It was painful just to look at it... because it reminded me that I had lost you and that you had suffered so much because of me. But it also made it impossible for me to forget - to _deny_ - that we had shared happy days together. Just a handful of them, or so it seems, but..."

He shakes his head again, his pained expression implying that the happy moments they shared barely outweigh the pain of their separation. She wants to address that, explicitly, but this too doesn't seem to be the right moment.

"The curse which brought us to this world also transported many things from the Enchanted Forest to here. The cup was one of them. Not that I knew it, at the time, of course. My memories were gone as well. Just like everyone, except for Regina, we had fake memories which made us believe that we truly belonged in this world."

This information is interesting to her in a whole different way. She makes a mental note to ask about this later, for now pleased to find out that she's in perfect control of the ever growing list of topics for later conversation in the back of her mind.

"I kept the cup in my house. I still didn't use it, although I didn't know why at the time, but I found it soothing to have it near me. All I remembered then, or thought to remember I should say, is that I was a lonely pawnbroker who fell in love with his housekeeper. She supposedly died in a suspicious car crash very shortly after we admitted our feelings to one another."

She never thought that one could have too many memories, but she realizes now that being haunted by memories wherever you go, ones that aren't necessarily entirely truthful, is probably just as unpleasant as having no memories whatsoever.

"One day, I had a... disagreement with your father. I had regained my memories by then and I knew who he was, and which role he had played in your fate... according to Regina, at least. Based on that false information, I might have treated him... unfairly."

She doesn't know why he starts talking about her father now, especially since he barely did so all this time before, and she listens only more closely.

"My house was robbed the same day. There was no questioning the identity of the perpetrator. Miss Swann, the Sheriff, retrieved all objects which he had taken... except for one."

"The cup," she says quietly, understanding now where he is going with this. But that's about where the clarity ends for as far as she is concerned, the things he implies about her father thoroughly shocking her. She doesn't know her father – or rather, she doesn't remember him – and neither is she aware of what exactly went on between him and the man opposite her, but for the man who raised her to _steal_...

"Indeed. I located your father, but he didn't have the cup. But I wanted... I _needed_ it back. He wouldn't tell me where it was. I'm not proud of this and I would have preferred to keep this from you for as long as possible, hopefully forever, but..."

"Honesty," she fills in, recalling exactly what they talked about earlier that evening. From now on, they're going to be honest to one another, about everything. Even - especially - about the most difficult things.

"I hurt him, Belle. I hurt your father. I didn't mean to lose control, but... it wasn't only about that cup anymore when I was beating him. I believed that you wouldn't have been dead if it weren't for him. All I could think of is how he rejected you, how he had you tortured. Or at least, that's what I thought, because of what Regina had told me."

"Rumple, I..."

His eyes are pleading for forgiveness, for understanding at least, but her mind is spinning with what he is telling her.

"Do you want to talk about this another time?" he asks, sounding more hopeful than anything else.

"Yes, please," she says, grateful for the opportunity to stop talking about this most confusing and terrifying topic. And, just as importantly, for his implicit promise not to conveniently forget about it, but to continue the conversation at a better time.

"Of course, sweetheart. I'm sorry. This was probably too much to talk about yet, but..."

"But what?"

"It feels good, Belle."

He dares a quick glance at her, then lowers his gaze, his hair moving to cover his face again.

"To talk to you. To finally tell you everything. It feels... good."

There's a lump in her throat when it dawns on her that she apparently never knew this about him and her father before, not even when she had all her memories... that, in a way, he trusts her more than the woman who she is supposed to be.

"You'll always be able to tell me anything you want, Rumple. That won't change after tonight. I don't want you to feel pressured to tell me everything you want me to know right now."

She wouldn't have thought it possible before, but she's beginning to see that there can also be too much knowledge of her past, especially if there are revelations which she wasn't aware of even before her memories were taken from her.

"I appreciate that very much. I would truly like to talk with you about this at a better time."

She finds herself imagining doing just that. She can already see herself like that, spending long nights curled up at his side, just talking. They would be somewhere nice and quiet, perhaps even underneath a starlit sky...

Given the hope that's written all over his face, she isn't the only one with such desires, such expectation, for the near future.


	14. Part 14

Part 14

He clears his throat after the moment of quietness between them, ready to continue the tale of the cup which once was made of the very shards they are looking at.

"Regina set your father up to steal the cup from me. The Sheriff locked me up for beating up your father. Before I could arrange for my release from prison, Regina paid me a visit. She offered me the cup... in return for my name."

"Why would she want to know your name?" she asks, understanding by the stake of the bargain that his name must be very important, but not seeing how that can be so. "Didn't she know it already?"

"She wasn't certain about it yet in this world. Names hold power, dear. I had regained my memories of our real identities and histories, of both our true goals and purposes. Regina and I weren't exactly on good terms when we left the Enchanted Forest. She didn't know for sure whether I remembered who I really am, and thus to which extent I was willing, not to mention capable, to go against her. When she forced me to tell her my name, my true name, she knew for certain that I indeed know the truth."

"I understand."

She can most certainly see why he agreed to that trade, the cup for a confirmation of his true identity. At the same time, it seems a bit strange that he forced Regina to go through such lengths to find out about his name while he told _her_ so easily. After all, she didn't doubt him for a second when he told her that names have power, whatever that means exactly.

Of course, she supposes that he trusts her as much as he distrusts the cruel woman, but to give it so freely to her, before he could be certain that they would end up connecting like this...

"Rumple _is_ your real name, isn't it?"

"It is, sweetheart. In a manner of speaking, at least."

"What do you mean by that exactly?" she demands, although there is no suspicion in her voice. A remark such as this would have made her yet more distrustful of him only a while ago, but now she doesn't believe any longer that he would lie to her, or purposefully keep things from her.

"My name, my real name, is Rumplestiltskin. You used to call me Rumple. I like that, very much so. I'm far from fond of my full name. I didn't tell you it before because I was afraid it would sound too... unbelievable. I didn't want to confuse or scare you any further."

"I'm glad. If you would have asked me to call you Rumplestiltskin at the very beginning... well, I don't know much about names, but it probably would indeed have appeared very strange to me. I might have thought that you were fooling me. I wouldn't have wanted that, especially not now I have gotten to know you like this. I know now that you wouldn't mislead me like that."

There's something which crosses his face that's quite unlike the dislike he hinted at when talking about his full name when she says his real name for the first time. It makes her realize that there's at least a part of him that revels in being addressed by her like this. It's another insight that she stores away in her mind for later use.

"When I regained possession of the cup, I kept it in my shop from then on," he says, continuing his narration. "It's safer there and I spent more time there anyway."

He speaks matter-of-factly and her heart breaks a little more for him upon finding out just how much his house sounds more like a mere building than anything else. It's far from the safe haven, the cozy and comfortable _home_, that she would like it to be - for his sake, and her own.

"You spotted it there, when you were freed from here for the first time. You seemed... surprised that I still had it."

She doesn't know whether her actual self was taken aback by the fact that the object showed up in this world, or that he had hold onto it with such fierceness to begin with.

She can only hope that she, in her other lifetime, wasn't surprised because he kept an item which obviously means so much to him.

"I have kept it in the shop ever since. I liked to look at it, to remember, especially when you left again. By then, I had half a house full of the things I acquired for you... but nothing reminded me as much of you as the cup did."

Considering his words carefully, she is more and more under the impression that he perceived and treated her exactly like the cup. It sounds exactly like he saw her as something very precious that he never dared getting close to, let alone touch, something to treat with extreme care out of fear for damaging her.

She'd much rather have him actually interact with her, touching her, _living _with her. She's a person, not an object, and she won't break all that easily. But words aren't enough to convey that and neither suffices the time that has been granted them now. It's something that she'll have to show him, slowly and gradually. She can only hope that she'll have that chance.

"So with magic there's a way to fix the cup?" she says, thinking back of the question that started all this. "But you don't want to use it?"

"It seems wrong to use magic for this. It would be too easy, too neat. It doesn't suit what we are going through."

"It doesn't," she mutters, agreeing that it wouldn't be right to repair the cup with only a puff of purple smoke and a flick of his wrist after all this. And yet, to leave the cup like this, broken in dozens of tiny pieces... that isn't right either. "Is there no other way? Something more... suitable?"

"We could try a way that's more... traditional in this world. I don't know whether it will truly work, but... we could give it a try."

His hopeful expression persuades her as much as her own curiosity does.

"How can we do that?"

"By repairing the cup ourselves, without any help. Well, not of any magical kind at least. Let me show you."

There's a snap of his fingers and more purple smoke. It reveals a tube when it clears. He hands it to her as soon as it has materialized.

"It's glue," she says, reading the letters that are printed on it, but not fully understanding them.

It's only at his pleasantly surprised expression that she realizes what she just managed.

"I can _read_," she breathes, awed. There was no reason for her to presume that she wouldn't be able to, but in the same way there was no proof that she would. She has gone for so long without anything with letters on it which she might attempt to decipher, that it didn't occur to her to go looking for something like that now that she can.

"You enjoy reading. A lot. In the past, at least. I'll make sure to get you all your favorite books - and all others, If you'd like. You might still enjoy them."

"That would be lovely," she says, thoroughly delighted by the prospect.

But for now, she is focused on the little tube. She might be able to understand the words which are printed boldly on it, but that doesn't mean that she actually understands what it does.

"It's a sticky substance that allows us to keep parts of a variety of kinds of materials together."

"Like the pieces of the cup!" she cries out, excited. "We can put it back together."

"Indeed we can," he replies, his smile wider than it has ever been before.

"Can we get started right now?"

"Most certainly, if you would like to."

"I do," she replies, finding herself almost bouncing on her seat in excitement.

There's yet more purple smoke and then there's a table in front of them, giving them a perfect workspace. Understanding his intention, she carefully gathers the shards from the little table at her side, making sure to pick up even the smallest ones.

Once she has them all, she solemnly places them on the new surface in front of them. Subconsciously, she places the pieces right between them and sorts them, from the largest to the smallest parts.

Before she has put them all down, she already notices that several of the larger pieces clearly fit together. Excitement of a kind she never knew before coming over her, she picks up those pieces and starts to fit them together, trying them in various ways until both the blue pattern on the white porcelain and the shape of the cracks is a perfect fit.

Almost having forgotten that he is there, she is reminded of his presence when he screws the lid off the tube and hands it to her, his expression one of hope and pride.

She is having her hands full at the moment, not being able to take the tube without letting go off at least one of the pieces. And although it was surprisingly easy to fit those first pieces together, she doesn't have a clue how to actually use the glue which he acquired.

"Can you do that?"

"Of course," he says, sounding so very joyed at the prospect that she wonders why he didn't propose to do it in the first place.

She watches with fascination when he puts some of the semi-liquid from the tube onto the edges of the shards and then gestures for her to put them together, like she just already did a moment ago.

She does as she suggests, smiling in delight when she feels the forming connection between the pieces. Her smile fades quickly though when she inhales the scent of the glue.

She gags when a smell stronger than anything she can remember assaults her senses. Even the stuff that was used to clean her cell in the basement every once in a while didn't smell as bad as this does.

"What is it?" he asks, panicking.

"The smell," she manages, pointing at the tube he's still holding. "It's _awful_."

There is no purple haze this time, but the most unpleasant smell is gone just a second later.

"Thank you," she says, figuring that he must have used magic of a different kind than the one she has witnessed before in order to vanish the scent of the glue.

He glares at the tube with a frown on his face, as if he can punish the substance for upsetting her by merely looking at it.

"I should have realized..."

"Should have realized what?"

"The scent is indeed quite strong. It can already be unpleasant for people in a normal condition, but you... It seems like your senses react as if they have never experienced something like this before."

"And they have?" she deduces from his tone.

"Yes. You are used to much worse. There's a traditional method I use for waterproofing some of the items in my shop. It requires lanolin, which is harvested from the wool of sheep. It's scent is quite... peculiar. Very strong, too. It didn't stop you from joining me in the back of my shop, where I do repairs and other maintenance work, such as waterproofing. You said you liked to watch me work."

"I can imagine," she says quietly. She is relieved to hear that she used to come over to him, just so she could watch him; she doesn't need any memories in order to know how much that must have meant to him.

At the same time, it might explain why she is so very fond of doing nothing but watching this most intriguing man; it's a trait which has been part of her, somewhere, all along.

"It seems that you senses are to at least some extent linked to your memories. I got to admit that I don't know whether this is normal or whether it's related to the magical... nature of your memory loss. We can ask Dr. Whale about it, if you'd like."

"I think I do, yes," she says, considering. She wants to know as much about her condition as she can. Not just because she wants to make full use of the fact that she can actually learn things about herself, or at least about what is _wrong_ with her, but also because she finds herself experiencing a general curiosity regarding the possible effects of magic on people's health.

"Maybe you'd like to finish this first?" he asks, gesturing at the two pieces of porcelain of which she's barely aware that she's still holding them. "I imagine that Dr. Whale isn't available here anyway, at this hour."

There's something about his tone that implies that he's going to talk to the doctor no matter how if she would want that, but there is no need for that for as far as she is concerned. She is currently well anyway and it would be nice not to have any medical staff around for just a while longer.

In fact, she's much better than she has ever been, based on the memories which she _does_ have. Besides, she's enjoying just being here with him far too much to even think of going somewhere else or talk to anyone else.

"Yes, I'd like to do this first," she simply says, focusing her attention on the shards once more, the awful scent of the glue already all but forgotten.

She hasn't looked at the shards since he banished the smell of the stuff that she just put between the bits of porcelain. Now it turns out that the sticky semi-liquid is not moist any longer.

Eyes widening in delighted surprise, she sees that the two pieces of china are all but fused together, almost as if they never had been apart to begin with. Even when she lets go of one of them, the two parts remain together despite the limited support from her.

"This world may not have magic, but it has some very interesting things to offer nonetheless," he says, smiling and not taking his eyes off the cup.

"Do you suppose we could repair the whole cup like this?" she asks, critically eying the admittedly large number of small pieces before them.

"I think so. We can try at the very least."

"I'd really like that, yes."

Reaching for the pieces again, she knows that this isn't just about the cup itself. It's just as much about the repairs in their own right, at the challenge of fixing the cup together – of the _joy_ that both of them find in the task.

He gives her a piece, along with a tentative smile. Breaking her gaze away from the beauty of his expression to take a good look at the china, she notices that the blue figure on the new piece matches that of the two combined shards she's already holding.

From there on, it takes her only a short while to find out just how two halves of a delicately painted twig are supposed to fit. Before she can ask for it, he has the tube of glue at the ready and applies a few careful drops to both the single piece in her hand and the two parts she already combined in her other.

Once that's done, she carefully presses both sides against one another, watching with fascination how the liquid gradually hardens and connects the pieces.

More pieces follow, more dollops of glue and gentle brushes of hands. They share muttered instructions and timid smiles. The shards get smaller and become more difficult to attach to the slowly forming cup in their joined hands, but it doesn't matter now that they are sitting closely to one another once more and are repairing the cup together.

* * *

_I'm sorry it took me more than three weeks to update this story. That said, the fic might go on hiatus for a while longer because I have finally found a good job, which unfortunately requires me to move to the other side of the country. _

_Once I'm settled into my new life, I fully intend to complete this story :)_


	15. Part 15

Part 15

After quite a while, there are no more unconnected pieces of china between them and the item that they are holding resembles a cup once again. It's not quite what it must have been like, with the far from invisible break lines and some spilled drops of glue coating the china.

The most noticeable imperfection of the cup is however a small but undeniable chip at the rim. She smiles fondly when she spots it, fully visible only now that the more recent damage has mostly been undone.

"It's not broken anymore, but it's not quite whole either," she murmurs pensively, eying the result of their efforts.

"We never were," he says quietly, just as thoughtful, almost absent-minded.

The remark draws her from her focus on the repaired cup, fixing her gaze on him instead. She finds him still staring at the no longer destroyed china.

It's the first time that she truly understands why this cup is so important to him, why he reacted the way he did when she broke it – why he is like this now that it is mostly whole again.

It's not just that the cup is an object that reminds him of her, of that long ago time when they fell in love and lost one another. It's more than an item that's there whenever something happens between them, whether it's the start of her life at his castle, their deepening friendship and blossoming love, or the symbol of their separation and regret.

More than all that, for him the state of their relationship and the condition of the cup are one. From the chip when she gained his full attention for the first time, to the fact that he didn't smash the china even when he doubted her sincerity of her feelings so very much and finally the despair when she broke it, no longer remembering either him or their love.

"We could be," she whispers, letting go of the cup with one hand to bring her fingers to the side of his face, caressing his hair and cheek. "I want that, for us to be whole."

"I want that too," he breathes, all sincerity and moist, honey brown eyes. "I've wanted it for so long, Belle. But there was always something keeping us apart. Myself, mostly. Our love means so much to me, but I just don't know how not to ruin it. I end up driving you away and I don't know how to change that, to be the man who you might deserve."

She would have wished just a few hours ago that she would have her memories back if only because they might help her find a response to his implicit plea. But now she finds that she knows exactly what to say, even without remembering anything of their past.

"I don't know what happened to us in the past," she replies, her voice just as tentative as her hand on the side of his face. "I don't know anything about a lot of things, especially not when it comes to this. It seems we are quite similar in that regard."

She is silent for a moment, taking in his half-closed eyes and his tilted head as he leans into her touch, eagerly awaiting whatever she's going to say next.

"What I do know is that both of us want to find a way to be together. That we _really_ want to. I also know that everything that has happened tonight, everything that you did, did the complete opposite of driving me away."

His eyes are wide open now, his gaze boring deeply into hers.

"I suppose it won't always be like this, so... perfect. But if it is most of the time, or even sometimes... just as long as we truly try, I can't imagine wanting to be apart from you."

"_Yes_," he gasps, as if what she just described is all he ever hoped from life. "To try to be together like that... to try again. I've made mistakes in the past, so many of them, and I didn't think I'd get the chance to show you that I learned from those wrong decisions. It made me see that I truly can't bear life with you... nothing is more important to me than being with you."

"Well then," she says, for the very first time beginning to realize that there also might be an advantage to her memory loss. This might as well be the brand new start that both of them apparently needed so very much. "It looks like this time, for once, nothing is stopping us from being together."

The smile he gives her in response is wider than she has seen on him before, more radiant than she thought possible even after getting to know him throughout the past few hours. The same goes for the elated grin on her own face.

Hence, she isn't all that surprised when she ends up laughing, a genuine and cheerful sound straight from her belly. It's something she didn't know existed, let alone something she is capable of.

He joins her a few seconds later, his look of never ceasing disbelief and delight indicating that joy of this kind is something the two of them have never shared either. It makes her only happier to have found this with him now, more determined that the loss of her memories isn't necessarily only a bad thing.

Both of them quieting down eventually, but their smiles not fading entirely, she looks at the no longer broken cup in their joined hands. Recalling what he told her before, that the enchantment he put on the cup might help her remember, she focuses on the ever delicate china as much as she can.

It's not that she feels that she owes him to do as he requested her half a day ago now that she has the chance again; she simply wants to try anything she can to regain access to her memories. She already knows him so much better than she would have dared hope, but she feels that she can't have enough understanding of him.

Having accepted by now that she can't remember anything from before she woke up on the road in the forest, she isn't disappointed when nothing happens as she stares and focuses on the cup. She remains trying though, out of curiosity for a glimpse of the magic that might unlock her memories more than anything else.

There's nothing though, not the merest hint of _something_ when the seconds pass in silence.

"What is it?" he asks, all concern and fear once more.

Blinking, she directs her attention back to him, realizing that it might have been unnerving for him to have her quietly looking at the cup for so long. The knowledge that others can see her now and will probably base thoughts and assumptions on her behavior and appearance is something else that she's going to have to get used to.

She wouldn't have it any other way, though. Difficult as adjusting to the real world is in all likelihood going to be, anything will be better than having to get back to her cell in the basement - especially when she has him at her side, guiding and supporting her with each and every single step. There is no doubt that he'll do exactly that, no matter how slow her adaption is going to be... and no matter how different she might turn out to be from the woman who she was.

"There's nothing wrong," she assures him. "Or at least, nothing more than before. I was just focusing on the cup, like you said earlier, when you showed me the cup for the first time. I tried, but I don't think it's working."

"I feared it wouldn't, to be honest."

"Because it was broken? Did that make an end to the enchantment?"

She doesn't have a clue how magic is supposed to work, what its rules and limitations are, but that doesn't prevent her from speculating. His gentle smile informs her that he's aware of that and that he appreciates her inquisitiveness.

"The enchantment was weakened because of the... accident. I could have cast the spell again, but I don't think that it would have made a difference. Especially not now. The magic has only grown stronger since I cast it. Whatever magic might have been able to bring your memories back to you, it would have already done so while we repaired it."

"So it wouldn't have worked before, either," she says, slightly relieved to find that she at least hasn't ruined a good chance of getting her memories back when she smashed the cup earlier that day.

"Probably not," he admits. "I... well, I never was convinced that it would actually work. It was a wild guess. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I never believed that it would really make a difference."

"Then why did you bring it to me? You seemed so certain of yourself when you asked me to hold the cup and look at it."

"I'm a foolish man, sweetheart. I was willing to try anything to help you remember, just as long as it wouldn't hurt you."

He winces and she doesn't need to ask why. He may not have hurt her, not physically at least, but he did leave her very upset. It's clear now though that everything has turned out for the better. They wouldn't be here now, together, if it wouldn't have been for the fear which led her to smash the cup.

She places her hand on his again, soothing him by reminding him that she isn't upset any longer.

"I was aware that it was probably no use to try. But I... I would have given so much just to see you again, to talk to you perhaps. And of course I hoped I could make you less afraid. The cup... whether it would work or not, it gave me an excuse to visit you again, to be near you. It had been just a few days since you lost your memories, but I missed you so much."

She can't speak for the woman who she used to be, but she only hopes that her past self has never taken his love for granted, never thought of his affection and dedication as anything less than special.

"I can't live without you, Belle."

His tone is apologetic, and she can't stand it. If it weren't for the circumstances, for the delicacy of the moment, she might have been angry at the woman who she once was. She doesn't know much, but the way her supposed True Love questions his very wish to express that love horrifies her.

She wonders what can possibly have caused him to be almost afraid to tell her just how much she means to him. But it's a question that will have to wait. For now, she wants to reassure him, to let him know as clearly as she can that his declarations of love and dedication bring her nothing but joy.

"I know I don't remember you beyond the past few days. I hardly know anything about love," she says, tightening her hold on his hand as she choses her words carefully. "But I do know that you mean very much to me. I want to get to know you, all over again. I think I could fall in love with you. Properly."

She looks him straight in the eyes when she says the last words, feeling particularly bold as she does so. But the more they talk, the more she feels that there was something thoroughly lacking in their earlier relationship, a trust and honesty that seems so very important to her. If they are going to be together, if they are going to try again, she wouldn't want to do so with the doubt and hesitancy that seems to have characterized their interaction in the past.

He doesn't say a word, doesn't move, just looks at her with those eyes of his, as if he can't believe that she's really saying this - as if he thinks that it's too good to be true. Looking at him closely, she is aware of the subtle change in his gaze as she pointedly holds it, of the unabashed hope that blossoms in its depths.

It's not the first time this has happened tonight, but she is convinced that his optimism grows stronger each time.

Then he is smiling at her, another one of those beautiful, truly happy smiles. He doesn't need to speak to convince her of his gratitude and disbelief, the way he clasps her hands between his own telling her all she needs to know.

Because she presumes that the same doesn't go for him - not yet, anyway - she does speak as he caresses her with his thumbs.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promises.

"I won't let go of you again. Never. Unless... well, unless you want me to."

She opens her mouth to object, to inform him in no uncertain terms that she doesn't want him to let go of her under any circumstances. But she changes her mind before she tells him so.

It's very true that she doesn't want to be away from him, that she wants to be never apart from him again. He wants that too, just as much as she does - and that's why it's only more wonderful that he offers her a way out, making very clear that he won't prevent her from leaving him if she where to wish to do so. It doesn't matter that this is the last things she would want, that she'll fight for their love.

It _does _matter that he's giving her a choice... that he's offering her freedom. Now, and always. So that's why she doesn't object after all when he insists that he won't unconditionally hold on to her.

"We're going to be together," she murmurs, "but we'll always be free."

* * *

_Thanks so much for the lovely messages in reaction to the previous update! The site won't let me personally reply to most of them, but let me tell you here that your support means a lot to me =D_


	16. Part 16

Part 16

"I'd like for us to be together like that," he murmurs, "very much so. I want a life with you, Belle. Never believe otherwise. But not against your will."

She beams at him as he describes exactly what she hopes that the two of them will be like. It's his way of confirming that he wants the two of them to be together, but not when either of them doesn't want to anymore.

He looks like he wants to say more, but no words come out of his mouth. She understands, for she doesn't know either how to react to this implicit promise of both togetherness and freedom.

It soon turns out that this is yet another occurrence in which they simply don't need words in order to understand one another. Anything they might have said is right there as their eyes lock, their smiles almost identical.

There is a need to be yet closer to one another, to make an immediate start with the relationship which both of them crave so very much. They have held each other several times throughout the evening, but never with the emotional closeness they have now reached.

That makes it no less than natural for her, nothing but intuitive, to settle herself on her knees at his side. Looking straight at him, she places her hands on his shoulders, both to ensure her balance and because she simply enjoys touching him so very much, no matter where and how.

She moves slowly, both because she wants to savor the slow approach and because this is something else which is entirely new for her. It reminds her that it'll be like this for probably quite a long time. She's surely learning and discovering, but she has no doubt that she'll find new challenges for each unfamiliarity she overcomes.

It would have scared her, before. It would have terrified her. But with this man at her side, his support as unwavering as his love, it doesn't seem all that awful in the slightest. If anything, she is looking forward to the weeks - months, however long it may take - of discovery and exploration of every aspect of the life which she's supposed to have.

Never looking away from him in order to make sure that he's as comfortable with this as she is herself, she lifts her knee over his legs, settling it right next to his thigh. She lowers herself carefully, making sure not to hurt his leg when she gradually rests her weight on him.

He relocates his hands to her waist, guiding her back a few inches. She doesn't know why he won't let her sit pressed tightly against him, but she supposes that this too is something that will make sense in due time. All she does is shake her head briefly when he starts to withdraw his hands, letting him know that she'd like him to continue holding her like this.

Even if it wouldn't have been for the coat that's still covering her, effectively blocking most of her body from his view, she wouldn't have been embarrassed by the way the hem of her already low-cut hospital gown rides up when she settles herself like this.

Neither is there any shyness when she wraps her arms around his neck, finding that she can hold onto him in a very pleasant way despite the slight distance between them. She isn't necessarily closer to him than she has been before, but it feels more intimate now that her legs are on either side of his.

Their chests pressed lightly together, she finds that she can lay her head on his shoulder, thus pleasantly resting her head and being wonderfully close to his ever sensitive neck at the same time. She can't see his face any longer, but she doesn't need to in order to know that his eyes are closed as he savors the feeling of her breath against his skin, that he sighs deeply whenever she rubs the tip of her nose lightly against him.

She sighs too, very happy to be near to him like this. He tightens his hold on her in response, ever so tender fingers stroking her through the material of the gown, right above her hips, as he does so.

She can both see and feel the flutter of his heartbeat, right there where a slightly red mark on his skin indicates where she kissed him earlier. Wanting a yet more substantial proof of his nearness, of his very existence, she maneuvers a hand between their bodies until it comes to rest right above his heart.

Its beat is regular beneath the layers of fabric he is wearing, and slightly faster than her own. Shifting herself a little until she is settled yet more comfortably against him, she closes her eyes and savors the sensation of the firm beating of his heart.

Lying against him like that, there are no more worries, no more fears. There's only reassurance and safety and quietness, only incredibly soft fabric and a warm, protective embrace... only _him_.

She only becomes aware that she must have been dozing off when he shakes her shoulder lightly, drawing her back from the sleep that was overtaking her.

It takes her only a moment to gather her bearings, to recall everything that has happened throughout the evening. It's an utter delight to be able to remember, even though it's only such a short amount of time.

"What is it?" she mutters, not understanding her why he has woken her, interrupting such peaceful perfection.

"You should go to back to your room, dear," he replies, just as softly. "It's very late and this isn't a suitable place to sleep."

"I'm so sorry," she cries out, fully realizing only then just where exactly she has fallen asleep. He may have enjoyed having his body support almost all of hers, but to have her on top of him for a considerable time, especially when he has nothing but the far from comfortable seat beneath him, is quite something else.

"Don't be," he says, stroking her hair to reassure her. "I can only hope that this was as pleasant for you as it was for me. But we can't stay here, sweetheart. You need to rest properly, especially given the exertions of the past few days."

She nods in agreement. She may not have done much more than being in bed most of the time - worrying, despairing - but she is indeed exhausted.

"You should go to bed to get a good night's rest."

She nods again and removes herself from his wonderful embrace with reluctance. Her limbs are sluggish with sleep and she is far from eager to move away from him. But she does so anyway, aware that they indeed can't comfortably spend the night like this, in the ever so quiet hallway.

It's only when she sits down next to him, on the seat where she has been for the majority of the evening, that it dawns on her that she has no idea which alternative he has in mind.

"It's probably best for you to get back to the room you've stayed in the past few days," he says, his dread tone indicating that he's as unhappy about it as she is.

"I don't think I want that."

It's not that she minds spending another night in the hospital as such; it's the look in his eyes telling her that he doesn't intend to stay with her which causes her reluctance.

She doesn't want to be separated from him again, not for a single minute, but he's already distancing himself from her. It's not that he's physically increasing the space between them, not yet at least, but she can see him all but stepping back as he clenches his hands, his expression hardening.

"It's only temporary," he says carefully, gauging her reaction. She balks at the notion of having to stay in the hospital room, not quite her cell in the basement but still a prison of sorts, especially when he isn't there with her.

But he listens to her, doesn't order her, not even for her supposed own good. For now at least, that's good enough for her, preventing her from panicking at the notion of having to go back to a hospital room, all alone once more.

"Only until we can make other arrangements."

"Like what?"

Much as she dreads the possibility of being separated from him again, if only for a few hours, she is intrigued by the options that might be open to them soon.

She hasn't had the chance to think about this during the past hours, but she's curious indeed about the places where she might stay once she is finally free from the hospital... although there's only one that holds her particular interest.

"You have an apartment of your own, above the library. You've got friends. You don't remember them, but they'll be happy to help you. There's miss Lucas, for example. She and her grandmother run an inn in the town. I'm sure they'd be delighted to give you a place to stay for the time being."

Much as she's convinced now that her life hasn't only been what she always presumed, she still can't quite imagine herself actually living anywhere. The mere idea of having friends is still almost impossible, especially because she already has him. Having others who care about her, who might support her, is almost too much to take in.

"It sounds lovely," she replies, slightly uncertain.

'Lovely' hardly begins to cover the sheer luxury of having a place to live. To have a space which is hers and where she can do as she pleases, without being watched against her will. Better still is the reminder that there are people out there who she can rely on, that she isn't all alone in the world any longer, even if it weren't for the wonderful man at her side.

And still... it's not what she was hoping for.

"You think I should go back to my apartment?"

The last word is foreign on her tongue, and not just because such a place is so far from anything she imagined for herself during all the empty years.

She feels almost guilty for it, but she can't help but think that this isn't the place where she would like to go.

She supposes that she can manage living on her own - she has already managed so much on this day alone. Besides, being independent has been a dream during every day and night she was locked up.

Still, now that this kind of craved freedom is presented to her, she finds that having her own space and schedule, no one to interfere with her life, is not what she wants any longer.

"You could do that, yes," he says, sounding just as reluctant as she feels. She doesn't fail to notice that he lingers on the word 'could' for a bit longer than seems necessary.

Probably it is silly of her to think so, but she can't help but expect something... more. For as long as she has known him - although that may not nearly be as long as he has known her - he has persuaded her of his affection for her, his love, of his desire to spend his life with her... to never leave her out of his sight again. She can't imagine that he truly wishes to live apart from her.

And yet, she has learned that it didn't end well when she lived with him in this world for only a few weeks. She can't rule out that he's afraid that this will happen again... or that he doesn't _want _to share his home with her, not wanting her to remind him of the woman who she isn't.

"Is there anything else I _could_ do?" she questions, purposefully making the same emphasis as he just did. Whatever she may have thought or feared in the course of the evening, her heart knows that he wants to be with her as much as she wants to be with him. She doesn't allow herself to linger on her doubts, not ever again.

"My house," he says, speaking softly and lowering his gaze again, as if not wanting to actually present that option to her. "You've got a room there, I left it exactly the way it was after you..."

It would be easy to mistake his reluctance for reject. Now that she has gotten to know him like this however, it's clear to her that his hesitation is due to fear of making her uncomfortable.

"My house is at your disposal. You're very much welcome there, but I understand if you prefer not to..."

"I would love to come live with you," she says, smiling broadly as he offers exactly what she hoped he would.

"You do?"

It pains her, it truly does, to find that he doubts her longing to be with him even know. She dreads to think yet more what could have caused him to be like this.

"Yes," she simply says, "I would love to live with you."

"I... I didn't dare hope you'd actually want that."

"I do. Very much so."

There must have been something in her expression, something in her voice, that finally persuades him of her willingness – of her _eagerness – _to share his home... to _live _with him.

Then again, it's not as if she actually has any experience with such things, or any knowledge on how to make this work for either of them.

"Still, I don't know what it was like when we lived together. I don't know what it _can_ be like."

"The past mostly showed what it shouldn't be like. What _I _shouldn't be like," he says, tracing the back of his fingers of both his hands along her cheeks ever so tenderly. "We'll have to find a way together."

"I think we will," she simply replies, filled with a certainty that's as strong as it is surprising.

They may not know exactly how to achieve the happiness they are craving, but both of them are quite desperate to try. So far, he has been brave when she was not, and she has been strong when he was not. Between the two of them, making their most unusual relationship work may not be all that impossible after all.


End file.
